The Unkindness of Ravens
by Twinings
Summary: All things considered, it was still not the worst Christmas ever. -CATverse 1.1-
1. Tinsel and Bullet Holes

_Cover image by adabsurdum._

Visit the website at wwwdotcatversedotcom. You can find an alternate universe comic book adaptation of this story under "Photo Spreads," or find a handily in-order listing of the stories under "Story Arcs." Also, as of June 2010, this series is undergoing a pretty extensive overhaul. Some things will be added, more things will be cut, everything will be tightened up, all in the name of bringing a better product to you, the reader. So if you have any advice or constructive criticism to share, please drop a line to me or BiteMeTechie. As always, your support is greatly appreciated.

-Twinings/3.0 2010/06/07

* * *

And it begins...

This is a Christmas present for my first mate. If I actually owned these characters, I would wrap them up and stick them underneath the Christmas tree. (Okay, so it's not really a tree. It's a traffic cone. That hardly matters.) Unfortunately, I own nothing DC-related (an oversight that will be rectified someday, I don't doubt.) And so I offer this instead.

Now, all _I_ want for Christmas is for TheNoblePorpoise to finally post something in return. It doesn't _have_ to be _The Year Without a Santa Claus_ snuff-smut (although I'm not writing it _for_ you this time!) Just post your first Scarecrow fic, sweetums. I love that one, and I am hereby encouraging everyone who reads this to go and badger TheNoblePorpoise until she finally bloody well posts. Bother, bother, bother.

On with the story! Which is full of inside jokes, not the least of which is that one of the characters is named after one of my other characters. It's not intended to be the same person.

Now, imagine if you will, a Scarecrow voiced by Jeffrey Combs, drawn by Tim Sale, with Cillian Murphy's eyes. Yummy.

And as for the Riddler, let him be the unholy lovechild of Robert Englund and John Glover. (Unfortunately, my muse was unable to reach Frank Gorshin.)

Any other characters may be imagined as you will...

(P.S. A group of crows is called a murder, of course, but did you know that a group of ravens is called an unkindness? This pleases me.)

* * *

The Unkindness of Ravens

* * *

By December 20th, the Christmas decorations had already been up for well over a month. In the good parts of town, things could be replaced when they began to show signs of age.

In this part of town, things just got old before their time. Light bulbs burned out, got broken, or were stolen and never replaced. Posters faded into obscurity, if they lasted that long before being torn from the walls or painted over by vandals. Gaudy tinsel snowflakes and plastic Santas decorated every available pole, but the snowflakes were looking battleworn by the middle of the month, and more than one of the Santas sported a bullet hole or two.

No one walked alone there at night. Few people walked _alone_ in broad daylight.

But this was twilight, the hour between dark and light, when the sun no longer brightened the grimy city streets, but the city wasn't yet ready to give in and put on its remaining functional lights.

It was a time of greasy grey shadows, in a place that did shadows best of all. And in a city that had seen everything and more, it was not at all surprising that one of the shadows moved.

This was a shadow that sometimes had a face and a name, walked on two legs and lived the life of a human being. Today it was simply a shape, flitting through lesser shadows with a single purpose.

It was following a man.

A man who did not belong there.

There was nothing truly spectacular about his appearance. He was past thirty, probably not past forty; he didn't leave himself open enough to make it easy to guess. The man was taller than average, and painfully thin, with a slightly downtrodden expression that was not at all uncommon in a place like this. He walked hunched over, apparently lost in thought, with both hands stuffed into the pockets of a jacket just (barely) good enough to mark him as a potential target for a mugging, although it was old and worn and didn't look like it was doing much against the cold. His face was mostly obscured by a thick fringe of rather shaggy light brown hair, a wide red crocheted scarf over his mouth and nose, and thick spectacles—on most people, they would have been glasses, but on this man, they were spectacles and nothing else.

He stepped into an alley, apparently oblivious to the blatant danger, and the shadow followed him, poised to strike.

But someone else followed him, as well. The shadow melted back, unseen among the other shadows on the wall. A shadow could not be impatient, and the plan...the plan could be adapted.

The absent-minded professor seemed not to notice the young man walking up behind him, or the older one up ahead, blocking the other end of the alley. Their intentions were brutally obvious to the trailing shape, as were the bulges under their jackets that could only be guns. So, their purpose in this game was deadly serious—the only people who ever carried guns around here were the ones who meant to use them. The gang that owned this territory policed its citizenry far more strictly and efficiently than Gotham City's actual police force ever could.

These two wore the colors of the ruling gang, but they were not part of it. Their movements were all wrong. These two were something more.

Professional henchmen.

The shadow stayed close.

"Hey, you," said the man blocking the end of the alley, when the target seemed ready to just squeeze past him. Now he looked up, and immediately lost his dejected air.

"What do you want?" he snapped. "I'm working. If your interference costs me my new test subjects—"

"You think a stupid mask gives you immunity, Crane?" the leader growled. Intensely blue eyes narrowed behind the spectacles.

"I think you, of all people, should know better than to cross me again." His voice, though muffled by the scarf, came out icy, almost frightening in its absolute calm. The two young men were not intimidated.

"Filters," the leader said, tapping the side of his nose. "Some of us learn from our mistakes."

"Business," said the other man, who had been silent up until now. "Not pleasure." The intended victim turned to face them both; the movement put him within sprinting distance of a fire escape on one side and a set of garbage cans on the other.

"If you have business with me, speak and be done with it. I have more important matters to attend to."

"You know who we're working for, Crane. You've got to pay what you owe."

"Scarecrow," he said coolly. "If you insist on playing out this charade, you follow the rules."

The two men struck without warning, or so it seemed, but the Scarecrow was halfway to the fire escape in the time it would have taken a normal man to blink.

"Hold it," the lead thug bellowed as they both drew their guns.

That was about as effective as saying "stop" to a speeding bus. The Scarecrow swarmed up the fire escape, climbing like a gangly little monkey. He swung around, trying to put the scant protection of the ladder between his body and their guns. And at the moment when his balance was at its most precarious, the leader fired.

The shadow twitched. The second man dropped without a sound, a dart in his neck. His leader didn't notice.

The Scarecrow fell, clutching his bleeding hand, and landed hard on his back. Quicker than thought, the thug was on top of him. The butt of the pistol crashed down on the Scarecrow's nose, snapping the bridge of his glasses neatly in half.

The shadow moved closer, a second dart glistening dully in the dim light.

But assistance didn't seem to be required just yet. The Scarecrow managed to get a hand up to stop the next blow coming at his face. His hand closed around the other man's wrist, and a simple twist sent the attacker flying. A kick to the groin would have ended the fight then, had the man not rolled away, taking the blow in the thigh instead. He grunted in pain, but still managed to come up before the Scarecrow was well on his feet.

"You scrawny little bastard," he growled, and dove forward, slamming the Scarecrow against the nearest wall. With his left hand, he held the much smaller man pinned. With his right, he held the gun trained an inch from his face. "Joe, hold him." Joe, of course, was nowhere near able to respond. Not-Joe risked a glance over his shoulder at his fallen comrade. "What did you do to him?"

"Nothing," the Scarecrow said, wide-eyed. "Honestly."

"Damn you." He ripped off the scarf. A small plastic breath mask, defense against the Scarecrow's own weapon, clattered to the ground. "Open your mouth."

"Mmm?" Instinctively, the Scarecrow pressed his lips together.

"Now." The Scarecrow's lips parted just enough for the man to ram his gun inside.

Now the shadow quivered on the verge of action, calculating how best to take down the threat without causing the gun to go off. The last thing the shadow wanted was a messy death.

"How does that taste, Scarecrow? Taste like fear? Are you _scared_, Scarecrow?" He cocked the gun. "Answer." The Scarecrow said nothing, but he might have nodded, or it might only have been trembling that made the gun move slightly up and down. Either way, the answer was the same.

The shadow stepped away from the wall as the thug shoved his gun deeper into the Scarecrow's mouth, making him gag.

Having abandoned all pretense of subterfuge, the former shadow revealed itself to be a rather ordinary looking young woman dressed all in black, both hands clenched with suppressed rage, but otherwise apparently calm.

She stumbled theatrically into the garbage cans, setting off a ruckus that drew the attention of both men.

"Hi," she said, flashing a disarming smile. Not-Joe's eyes narrowed.

"Who are you?" She spread her hands, palms up.

"I'm here on business. Are you going to kill that man?" Her friendly smile widened. He refused to be charmed.

"Who wants to know?"

"_I_ want to know. I told you, I have business with him. And I promise it's not anything he's going to enjoy. If you are going to kill him, maybe you could let me talk to him first?"

"Yeah? What do you want to talk to him about? I've got a schedule to keep here."

She gave him a measuring look.

"Does your schedule account for the time it takes to pistol-whip him? Come on. I have questions. I need answers. Simple as that."

The Scarecrow spoke up then. Whatever he said was completely unintelligible, but she mentally translated it as, "I can't even breathe with this gun in my mouth."

"I'm not asking you to let him go," she said gently. "I'm just asking for a few minutes of his time."

With a shrug, the man pulled his gun back. Coughing, the Scarecrow started to double over until the thug shoved him back up against the wall.

"Keep your hands where I can see them, Crane. You want to talk to the nice lady or not?" The Scarecrow collected himself enough to stare coolly into the other man's eyes.

"I told you what you can call me."

Not-Joe jerked the Scarecrow off his feet, swinging him around into human shield position. It was a good idea, but there was a split second when the gun was pointed at nothing in particular, and that was when she dropped her pose of harmlessness and struck.

Not-Joe went down with a dart in his neck. The gun went off, striking nothing important. The Scarecrow started to run—very quick, he was—but she caught him and brought him down as well.

And her smile was very different from her previous goofy grin, and far more genuine.

#

For such a tall man, there wasn't much weight to him. Still, she didn't compare in size with the average criminal goon, and he was far too heavy for her to cradle in her arms as she carried him to her car, so she had to settle for dragging him along behind her.

The tranquilizers would keep him thoroughly sedated for a good long while yet. There were other restraints for later, but they wouldn't become necessary for some time. Some of them wouldn't be necessary at all, she hoped.

She looked over at her captive, sleeping as soundly as a child in the passenger's seat. That peaceful expression wouldn't be on his face too much longer, she judged.

He was in for the surprise of a lifetime.

As for Joe and Not-Joe, she left them unconscious just inside the territory of a gang rival to the one whose colors they so brazenly displayed. They would most likely get just about what was coming to them.

And the Scarecrow…well, dealing with him was going to be quite a treat.

"Enjoy your nap, Squishykins," she said sweetly. "I get the feeling you won't be getting much rest, these next few days." She wrinkled her nose. "Just don't try _too _hard to get away. I had planned on bringing you in walking and talking."

He didn't answer, of course, which only made her smile all the more.


	2. Snow Miser

This was not the first time Jonathan Crane had woken up after a fight with no memory of how he had gotten home. It was not the first time he had woken with lingering traces of some drug in his system making everything feel oddly blurred. It was not quite the first time he had woken with the feeling of ropes binding him to a chair. But it was the first time he had woken to the sound of a woman sweetly humming an oddly soothing rendition of "Snow Miser."

All this passed quickly through his mind in the split second before he opened his eyes.

Yes, he was at home—or, at least, in the closest thing to a home he had anymore. It was not a place he visited often, this little storage pod. He only used it as a place to keep the things that really mattered—the books he couldn't stand to lose. Besides those, he had an old recliner that could have been specifically made for his body (good to read in, easy to fall asleep in, and a color that made it easy to forget that he had bled on it more than once), a few blankets, a first aid kit (because this was where he came, if he could, when he was hurt), extra clothes (one set of street clothes and one Scarecrow costume), a small supply of fear toxin (old now, but with a little bit of life left in it), some cash (for the rare occasion that he would actually need to _buy_ something), and a battery-powered reading lamp (complete with extra batteries and light bulbs.) Usually, there was food, too, at least some water and trail mix, but he hadn't restocked last time. He only came here in case of an emergency, after all. He had kept it for years without its being discovered. No one was _supposed_ to know it was his.

And yet, this woman…

"Good morning, starshine," she said with sugary sweetness. "I was starting to think I gave you too much. You were dead to the world." She was not from Gotham, he realized, but he couldn't quite place her accent, though it sounded naggingly familiar.

"Who are you?" he demanded, slurring the words a little. She leaned over to look into his eyes, first with a look of concern, then with a smile when she realized that the only thing wrong with him was the tranquilizer still in his system.

"You can call me Al," she said. "That's not my name, but that's what you can call me. What can I call you?" He narrowed his eyes, refusing to answer. "Scarecrow? Professor Crane? Jonathan? Take your pick. If you don't, I'm just going to call you Squishykins."

"What do you want?" he asked, squirming a little to test the ropes.

"Short answer: I'm kidnapping you."

"Why?"

"Now, that would be telling. Come on, _Squishykins_. Do you want to take any of these books? It's going to be a long trip."

"Don't call me Squishykins," he snapped. His mind was becoming more alert. The woman whose name was not Al smirked.

"Jonathan? Can I call you Jonathan?"

"No."

"Still too informal? How about—"

"What do you want from me?" he interrupted.

"Manners," Al singsonged. "If you can't be polite…" She trailed off. He waited for her to finish, but she didn't seem to have anything else to say.

"If I can't be polite, _what?"_

"Oh, nothing. Sure you don't want to bring a book?" He just glared at her. For some reason, that made her giggle hysterically.

That made it rather difficult to maintain a fearsome expression.

Still chuckling softly, Al picked up a bag that had been lying at her feet and wormed her way through the clutter to the door. It squeaked horribly as she raised it.

As soon as she was gone, he started wriggling against the ropes, but she had tied him too tightly for him to make his escape before she got back. One rope tied his wrists together in his lap; another across his chest held him to the chair. His feet were bound, likewise, but he couldn't see exactly how from this angle. His glasses were gone, which was probably for the best, judging by the swollen feel of his face where the gun had hit him earlier.

This was not the worst spot he had ever found himself in, but it had the potential to be uncomfortable enough.

He couldn't imagine who she was, though. He hadn't upset anyone recently, other than the usual people—certainly not anyone who was likely to employ someone like her. Female criminals were a rarity in Gotham—not unheard of, but uncommon. The hired help tended to be muscle and not much else, and who would bother taking a woman for that when big, burly men were a dime a dozen? The Penguin used women, but while this Al was by no means repulsive, she didn't quite have the pretty face or the other assets that would have brought her to his attention—and she didn't seem the type to expose herself in one of those skimpy costumes, anyway. Two-Face would hire anyone who came in a matched set, but if that were the case, then the other half would have put in an appearance by now, and besides, Two-Face was safely locked away in Arkham. There were no others he could think of who liked working with women, other than the Joker, and he and Harley were as lovey-dovey as they had ever been before, so it wasn't likely that he had picked up another one. Besides, she might be giggly and a little unbalanced, but she was also stealthy and dressed in black, neither of which fit the Clown Prince's profile.

So that meant that she was either extraordinarily talented, working for someone outside Gotham (possible, given her accent) or working for herself.

He knew how to read her, of course. In a matter of hours, he knew he could have from her every little secret she wanted to keep buried, and a few she didn't even know she had, all without ever exchanging a single word.

But he was not at all sure that he wanted to spend that much time in her company.

"I'm back," came her irritatingly cheerful voice, sugary as Sweet 'N Low, and just as false. She ducked under the opening, smiling like a kid on her way to Disneyland. "Think you can walk now? I'm getting you back in the car either way, but I'd rather do it with you walking."

"Why bring me here and wait for me to wake up?" he asked in a more civil tone. "Wouldn't it have been easier to keep me in your car?"

"I don't want to attract too much attention," she said, which wasn't an answer at all. "Walking? Yes? No? Maybe?"

"I don't see why not," he retorted, raising his bound hands to her line of sight as best he could. She gave him what was evidently supposed to be a patient and long-suffering look as she picked up the butcher knife that had been sitting on the table next to her.

"Okay, so you're having a bad day. I get that. I'm going to cut you loose now. Try to run, and I'll catch you. Fight me, and I'll fight back. Make some noise, and I'll shut you up. Cooperate, though, and we'll have a nice, painless couple of days together. I won't hurt you if you don't make me. Understand?"

"I understand." Satisfied, she knelt in front of him.

_Might as well make use of the element of surprise._

The moment his feet were free, he kicked out at her, slamming her against the wall.

"Damn it all!" she yelped as he hooked his leg around her neck, pinning her against the chair. "I told you not to fight me! I'm still holding a knife, you fucktard!"

He realized he was not doing a very good job of strangling her…not with both legs asleep.

Damn.

"Get off me," she snapped, shoving his leg away with very little effort. It was a little embarrassing. She straddled his lap, holding her knife where he could clearly see it. "Do you want to get killed, or what? God, you're a dumbass! Are you going to be this difficult the whole time?" He glared at her sullenly, and after a moment of intense effort to meet his anger halfway, she snorted with laughter and got off him. "Okay, smeghead. Do yourself a favor and come quietly." She cut the rope that bound him to the chair.

He tried to jump up and run for the door, but his legs gave out under him, dumping him back in the chair.

"Your foot's asleep, isn't it?"

"Yes," he said. With a nasty grin, she slipped her arm through his and dragged him up out of the chair.

"Walk it off."

She led him out to her car, practically carrying him (he was _not_ going to cooperate, even if the only thing he could do to make things difficult for her right now was to feign more weakness than he actually felt.) The car was an older model, midsize and thoroughly unremarkable. He saw nothing there that he could immediately exploit.

She put him in the passenger seat and untied his hands just long enough to fasten his seatbelt, which surprised him a little. Then she took a pair of handcuffs, gave him a hearty smirk, and cuffed his hands to the door. Then, to his further surprise, she spread a warm blanket over him.

"What's that for?"

"To keep you warm, silly," she said sweetly. "I like it cold, and I don't want you to freeze to death before we get where we're going. Besides, if we have to stop somewhere, I don't want you flashing your handcuffs at people and inviting them to come to your rescue. I mean, I don't think you want the cops involved in this any more than I do, but you might get stupid. You _don't_ want the po-pos involved, do you?"

"No."

"Good." She started her engine. True to her word, the air conditioner was on, full blast, despite the below-freezing temperature outside. Al turned the dial a little toward the heat side, but not nearly as far as he would have deemed comfortable or sane. "Do you want to pick out a CD?" He didn't answer. "Okay, suit yourself. But this is going to be a pretty long drive. I don't want to hear you whining about it later." She put a lemon yellow CD in the player, and he immediately regretted his decision to remain aloof. Whatever they were listening to, it was completely unfamiliar, but it sounded like something the Joker would have enjoyed. He hated it on principle.

He tried to pay attention to where they were going, but he couldn't read the signs without his glasses, at least not at the speeds she was driving. He was amazed no one had tried to pull them over yet. Then again, the police didn't often bother with this part of town at this time of night (just past midnight, according to her clock.)

As if his thoughts had conjured it, a car pulled up behind them, low, dark, with lights as bright as twin suns.

The Batmobile.

"Oh!" Al yelled—just that, _oh_—and hit her turn signal so hard something should have broken off.

"Don't panic. Batman is not a traffic cop." Why he suddenly felt compelled to help her, he didn't know. But she clearly did not want to meet the Dark Knight, at least not under these circumstances. And, truth be told, neither did he.

"O-okay." She pulled the car smoothly into an empty parking lot, and then they watched the Batmobile drive past. "Holy. Smeg. Batmobile."

Well, that was interesting. He watched her fighting to control what looked to be absolute panic. So she wasn't as professional as he had originally thought. But why was she afraid of Batman? Had she had a run-in with him before? Or was she new at this? Did she fear the known or the unknown?

"What are you afraid of?" he asked in a gentle, soothing psychiatrist's voice. She looked up at him in surprise, blue eyes still wide with fright.

"Well, aren't you cute," she said shakily. "Shouldn't _you_ be a little nervous when the Batmobile comes barreling up behind you on a dark, deserted street?"

"I'm not the one doing anything wrong."

"This time." She looked both ways and pulled out into the empty street. "So…what's he like, anyway?" Ah, so she was new. Or, at least, new to Gotham.

"Who?" he asked innocently.

"You know. Batman." They drove in silence for a few minutes. Then, when she was no longer expecting an answer, he spoke up.

"Inconsistent," he said.

"What?"

"Batman is very inconsistent. He lets his emotional state dictate his actions. He may think he's an unstoppable crimefighting machine, but he isn't. Not really."

They lapsed into an uneasy silence as she turned onto the interstate. Then she turned down the music.

"Tell me more about Batman." He decided he might as well answer. If nothing else, it would be informative to watch her reactions. And it would keep that manic bassline from pounding into his head.

"He hates to lose. Beat him once, and he can hold a grudge for months until he feels the score is settled. If he is in a good mood, he can act as if he's your best friend—'Put down the spork. I just want to help you.'" She smiled at his imitation of that gravelly voice. "If he's in a bad mood, he's likely to put you in the hospital without thinking twice. And there's no telling which one you're going to get."

"Must be rough," she said.

"I suppose," he said with a shrug.

Silence.

"Do you get hurt a lot?" Al asked. He didn't answer that. "You probably spend a lot of time in the hospital, don't you?"

"No more than anyone else." He stared out the window, making a point to look as unresponsive as possible. She didn't take the hint, of course.

"But you're so fragile." That almost made him laugh. "Batman could, like, break you in half without even trying." He gave up on trying to read the signs, but he still did his best to appear interested in the scenery.

"Not many people are strong enough to face the Batman," he said indifferently.

"But you do it anyway." Was that respect he heard in her voice? Admiration? He risked a glance at her face. No, nothing. His gaze shifted back to the window.

"It's a living," he muttered.

More silence.

"Have you ever thought about moving to another city? You know, one without a Batman, where you could work uninterrupted."

"We've all tried it," he said. "It never works out."

"Really?"

"Really."

Another awkward silence.

"Why not?" she asked finally. He sighed.

"Some of us get bored easily. Some of us remember personal issues with Batman that we need to settle. And some of us are important enough for Batman to follow out of Gotham."

"Are you that last one?"

"Sure. Why not."

The silence was much shorter this time.

"Well? Are there any other reasons why it doesn't work out?"

"Of course. There are any number of reasons."

"Such as?"

"Such as the fact that people like the Batman spring up where they feel they're most needed. Why are you asking me these questions?" _Do you consider yourself a hero or a villain?_ Al shrugged.

"Just curious. This is going to be a long drive. We might as well make conversation."

"Hmm." He leaned his head against the window as if he were trying to go to sleep. Under the cover of the blanket, he tested the handcuffs. They weren't hurting him, but there was no way he was going to be able to slip out of them without breaking his thumbs, and he wasn't—quite—prepared to do that. Not yet.

"You cold?" Al asked. He shrugged. Let her make her own conversation, if she was so bored. She turned the heat up another notch. "You want to help me merge over?"

"No." She gave him an exasperated sigh.

"Fine. Forget the blind spot. At least if we die, we'll go out together."


	3. Gauze and Duct Tape

They drove in silence for a few hours, during which time the only thing he managed to accomplish was to make his wrists bleed. The lubrication was not quite enough to let him slip free of the handcuffs, but that hardly mattered. It wasn't as if he had anywhere else to go.

"Look at that sunrise," Al said, startling him. He looked up indifferently. Sunrises coloring the sky like an oil painting had never interested him much. All he was interested in was the direction of the sun, which told him that they were traveling south and a little west. Wonderful. With that information, he should have no problem getting away.

He resisted the absurd urge to bang his head against the window as Al reached over yet again to change the CD to something else he had never heard of and didn't particularly like. The woman had marginally better taste than Harley Quinn. That was about all he could say about her.

"How are you doing over there?" she asked over the sound of music so relentlessly peppy he had to wonder if she was attempting some kind of psychological torture. He didn't bother to answer. "I'm fixing to stop and get gas. Do you need to go to the restroom?" He still didn't answer, although he _was_ beginning to feel a little uncomfortable. "Wake up, squish face. I don't want you staining my seats."

Then she poked him.

He was so startled, he squeaked.

She cackled.

"What's funny?" he demanded. In answer, she poked him again. "Stop that!" Poke, poke, poke, she poked him in time with the turn signal. "Stop touching me!" She just poked him again. "Stop it!" He tried to block her finger with his elbow, but the handcuffs held him at a supremely awkward angle, with his ribs mercilessly exposed to her relentless prodding. "Stop!" He pressed his body up against the car door, trying to evade her pokes.

"Is that all it takes to get a rise out of you?" She poked him again, and he felt his wrist start to bleed again when he jerked against the cuffs, reflexively trying to swat her hand away.

"Will you leave me alone?"

"No! I can't leave you alone. That would be wrong." She poked him once more as she pulled up to the gas pump. "So, how about it? I'll let you out for a minute if you need to go."

"I do," he said. She grinned.

"Now, that's the spirit, Squishykins! Politeness can get you anywhere." Whistling, she got out and walked around to his side of the car. Then she opened the door and poked him with the key.

"Stop doing that!"

"Nope." She pulled off the blanket—and froze at the sight of his bloody wrists. "Oh…what have you…have you been…oh, Professor _Crane,_ now _honestly_." She shut the door on him.

Stupid. He should have tried to clean that off.

She opened the door again and dumped his own first aid kit in his lap.

"Let's try not to let this happen again, okay?" She freed his right hand and locked the handcuffs around themselves, keeping his left hand trapped. Well, she certainly wasn't taking any chances just now. "I'm going to go ahead and assume that you didn't do this to yourself on purpose," she said as she carefully rolled up his sleeve. "Well, scoot over." She sat down next to him, crowding him over to the edge of the seat.

"This is not necessary," he said, trying to take his hand back.

"Of course it's _necessary_. Do you want it to get infected and fall off?" She dipped a cotton ball in alcohol and touched it to his wrist. Instantly, he tried to pull away. "Oh, yeah. Sorry. This may sting a little."

"Why won't you just leave me alone?"

"Oh, don't be such a baby, Mr. Master of Fear. I know it doesn't hurt that bad." She cleaned his wrist as efficiently as any nurse he had ever had—and was better than most orderlies at holding him immobilized. "Almost done, sweetums. You know, you can cry if you want to. I won't think less of you."

He glared at her, contemplating what he would have to do to reduce her to hysterical tears. Snakes? Spiders? Surely nothing so mundane. Maybe heights? He would quite enjoy dangling her from a skyscraper the way Batman seemed so fond of doing to his enemies. She would scream, and she would cry…

Soon. Very soon.

"I know that isn't necessary," he said when she started bandaging his wrist, using far too much gauze for the job.

"Call it precautionary measures." She reached into her pocket and pulled out, of all things, a roll of shiny silver duct tape.

"What is _that_ for?" She smirked.

"Oh, what do you think I am, some kind of pervert?" The white gauze quickly disappeared under layers of silver tape. "It's like my captain always says: duct tape fixes everything. And Sharpies write on anything." She giggled at some private joke.

A captain? That did put a new spin on things. Was she part of a military group? A police force? A pirate crew? (All equally feasible.) And was she currently operating under this captain's orders, or was she a free agent?

She changed wrists while he was contemplating that. He let out an involuntary hiss of pain at the renewed sting of the alcohol. She refused to let him pull his hand away.

"Well, are you?" he asked. She didn't let him distract her from her work.

"Am I what?"

"Some kind of pervert." She laughed.

"Silly man. You have nothing to worry about. I don't do that kind of thing."

"Well, what _do_ you want?"

"Cooperation. That's all." She finished bandaging and duct taping his left wrist and, with a wicked smile, released him from the handcuffs. "That ought to hold, don't you think?" She dragged him out of the car and gave him a moment to stretch. He realized then that she was a lot smaller than he had originally thought. She just barely came up to his shoulder.

"You are quite short, aren't you?" he murmured.

And she squeaked and twitched away from him.

Was that _fear_?

Surely she wasn't afraid of being short. (What would that phobia be called, anyway? Microphobia?) He could have taken the opportunity to try to run while she didn't have a hold on him, but…well, now he was intrigued. Besides, now that he had made her flinch, he no longer felt quite so powerless. He could still turn this situation to his own advantage.

"Come on, squish face. And make it snappy." She was brash, overcompensating for whatever little fright he had given her. How very interesting. She walked behind him on the way to the bathroom, keeping one hand on his elbow the whole way.

So, she would offer him what freedom she had to, to avoid attracting any attention, but she plainly didn't trust him not to try to run. He could work something out from that. He _was_ beginning to get a handle on her in spite of her better than average ability to keep herself closed off.

"Are you going to follow me inside?" he asked mildly.

"God, no! It's filthy in there!" she said, and shoved him inside.

Oh. She was right. This place was disgusting.

He used one finger to lock the door and then took a look around.

Oh, the stains. The rust. The smells.

The stains.

It was the most horrifying thing he had seen since…well, since the day he had gassed all those people on the set of that zombie movie. Some of that glorious carnage had been edited into a bootleg copy of the movie that had quickly become a cult classic, and was considered the masterpiece of that lousy hack director, who had fortunately been clawed to shreds by his own scantily clad scream queens.

They didn't make movies in Gotham after that.

But this…this was just horrifying.

He tried not to touch _anything_ as he did what he had to do. Then he tried very carefully to wash his hands, but the water was dubious at best, there was no soap to be found, and one look at the paper towel dispenser made him want to be physically ill.

Truly horrifying.

A quick check of his own pockets told him what he already suspected—she had cleaned him out. His fear toxin was gone, even the tiny emergency canister that he kept in a place he would rather she hadn't looked. His research notebook was no longer in his pocket. His backup notebook was no longer in his other pocket. His pens and pencils (at least one for every possible hiding place) were all gone.

So, there was no chance of leaving an S.O.S., not that anything of his would be heeded amidst the pornographic scrawls that covered those rare stretches of wall that were not disfigured by unidentified crusts. She was right, anyway; he didn't want to be rescued by the police unless it became absolutely necessary.

He had no weapons. Certainly, there was nothing in this filthy public restroom that he wanted to take with him. But he didn't particularly want to go back out there unarmed.

She knocked on the door.

"You done in there, Professor?"

He looked around quickly. Damn. Not even a window to climb out of. Had she scouted ahead? His respect for her rose another notch, as did his resolve to frighten her into a state of witless terror. She would be beautiful as a gibbering wreck. The strong ones were always his favorite to break.

But first he would have to get himself out of her power. No one feared a helpless man in handcuffs.

"Hey, Squishykins?" she called. The doorknob rattled.

Damn her. He unlocked the door. It swung open, and she took a step back, startled by the look on his face.

"Something wrong in there?" She grinned. "Or was it just icky?"

"You are a rotten child," he said. She shrugged.

"Hey, I don't like it either. At least you don't actually have to touch the seat." She took his arm. "Come on. I have hand sanitizer in the car."

This time around, he paid more attention to the car itself. There were no other cars in the lot except for this one, a rather nondescript beige thing with Gotham tags. It was most likely a rental; it didn't have that lived-in feel of most cars he had stolen over the years. There were two bags in the back seat. One was the one she had taken from his place (and he had to wonder just what she had put into that.) The other must be her personal gear. There might be weapons in that. Then again, there might not. She wasn't exactly built like a fighter, in spite of the ninja skills she had already displayed.

Other than her bizarre CD collection, he had not seen anything particularly useful in the car. She didn't even have any maps tucked into that pocket in the door, or a tube of lipstick tucked up above the makeup mirror. For a young woman, this Al was not terribly effeminate. There didn't seem to be much chance that he could find a lost bobby pin that he could use to pick the lock of his handcuffs.

Damn those handcuffs, he thought as she locked them around his wrists again-higher on his forearms this time, where the bandaging was thinnest and they'd be blocked from slipping off. Although he had to admit, the layers of gauze and duct tape did make the situation a lot less uncomfortable for him. It did put an end to the blood lubricant plan, but all in all, he was not the masochist that some of his compatriots were. He could live with the unusual company as long as she gave him something interesting to study.

Which was not to say that he was ready to give up on trying to gain his freedom. But life could be interesting until then.

Interesting.

She lost her casual smirk when she thought he wasn't watching. Pumping gas, her expression was perfectly neutral, a little softer looking than the snarkiness he had already become used to.

Then she rather spoiled the effect by looking in at him and sticking out her tongue.

Wretched little woman.

She went inside, to pay for the gas, he assumed.

Interesting, yet again. She must be paying cash, trying to avoid leaving a paper trail. A criminal status was looking more and more likely.

No time to worry about that now, though. There was no point trying to study her while she wasn't around.

He had more important things to worry about.

He couldn't reach the glove compartment, but he didn't think she would keep anything important that close to her prisoner, anyway. His best bet would be the compartment in between the seats.

The seat belt and the handcuffs made it more than difficult to bend himself into that awkward position, but at last he managed to nudge the latch with his nose. It didn't lift. He shifted position slightly and hit it with his chin. This time, he was able to raise it all the way.

Good. He hadn't been looking forward to using his tongue.

Inside the compartment, he found his glasses (duct taped at the bridge), his notebooks, and his pens. His eyes narrowed. The fear toxin wasn't there, but that wasn't unexpected. She wouldn't keep his greatest weapon where he could possibly get to it.

He picked up a pen in his teeth and let the lid slam shut. One would have to be enough. There was no telling how soon the crazy woman would be back. He slipped the pen into his pocket for future use. It would be a shame to have to sacrifice his favorite Uni-Ball, with the ink like fresh blood, but it was a sacrifice he was willing to make.

Yes, ink like blood. That one always did make him happy. He would think of something good to do with that ink, too. Something _she_ would enjoy.

When she got back, he was under the blanket and basking like a cat in the early morning sunlight. Gotham always had been colder than he would have liked, but it didn't bother him nearly as much as he was letting on. Let her think of him as weak. Let her be lulled into a false sense of security.

She even looked a little guilty as she slid into her seat. Fantastic.

"Are you okay?" He shrugged. "Getting hungry?" He shrugged again. "Well, I've got snacks if you want some." She dropped a plastic bag in his lap and handed him a bottle of water. He stared at her. "What? Would you rather have chocolate milk? Because this is mine." She took a sip from her own bottle (with a smiling brown cow on the label) and then turned her attention to driving.

He opened the bottle of water while she was focused on turning back on to the interstate. Thus it was that he was the first to realize that he could not get his hands anywhere near his mouth.

And now that he actually had a bottle of water in his hand, it occurred to him that he was _really_ thirsty

Now, this was just unfair.

He slid down in the seat, bringing himself closer to the water. Almost…He glanced up at her. Yes, she still had her eyes on the road. He scrunched down a little more, and was finally able to touch the bottle to his lips.

She chose that moment to go over a bump in the road. The water hit him like a cold, wet slap in the face.

Al glanced down at him and quickly turned her eyes back to the road.

Oh, _now_ she was intimidated.

He glared up at her…and realized that her lips were twitching in a concentrated effort not to smile.

"What?" he snapped.

"I'm sorry," Al said, and burst into maniacal laughter. She took a dry corner of the blanket and tried, rather awkwardly, to wipe his face.

"Stop it." She frowned.

"I'm trying to help, you jackass."

"I don't want you to help. I want you to stop touching me."

"You sound just like…" He waited.

_Who? "You sound just like" who?_ A friend? An enemy? A Bond villain? If he was reminding her of someone, if she was beginning to think of him in a different context, well, that was sensitive information.

But she didn't seem inclined to finish her sentence. Maybe she realized she had come close to giving something important away. Maybe she really was as insane as she kept tempting him to think. Maybe she just wanted to annoy him.

It was so frustrating not to _know_.

There were not many people who could make him lose his cool so easily—and most of those were dead.

When it became apparent that she was not going to say another word, he shrank down in the seat and drank the rest of the water without so much as stopping for breath. She glanced down at him with an expression that he couldn't quite read—and for him, that was unusual in itself.

"Dehydrated?" He shrugged. Give her the silent treatment. Let her fill the silence with conversation if she felt she must. After all, he wasn't going to learn anything by chatting away with her, now was he? "We can stop and get you something else to drink if you want," she said, uncertainty coloring her voice. "You aren't going to die on me, are you?"

"I doubt it."

"Okay…that's good, then." She hesitated. "Do you want some of my chocolate milk?" He shook his head. Chocolate milk had never been his drink of choice, and he was actually fairly comfortable now. He wasn't going to tell _her_ that… "Well, are you hungry?"

"Mmm," he said indifferently.

"Okay, whatever. You know where the food is if you want some. I'm not your smegging mother," she grumbled as she reached into the plastic sack for a bag of chips. She took both hands off the wheel to open it, and he tensed.

_Keep your hands on the wheel, idiot! You're doing eighty on the interstate!_

"Oh, do I make you nervous?" she said with an audible smirk. He didn't give her the satisfaction of an answer.

But if he had, he would have said that, yes, riding with a maniac driver made him a little _antsy_.

They didn't die right away, though. He took that as a good sign.

He sat in silence for a while, until he finally decided that admitting he was hungry wouldn't quite amount to handing her a victory. He reached into the bag and pulled out something cream-filled that had about as much nutritional value as a gym sock and tasted like pure sugar.

Well, it was something, anyway. But he couldn't bring himself to eat anything else from her sack of gas station snacks. It wasn't as if he had never dealt with hunger before. A couple of missed meals weren't going to kill him, but this rubbish just might.

It didn't seem to bother her, though. She munched happily on a Moon Pie as she drove, humming along to a heavily censored song about a promiscuous vampire.

Under the cover of his blanket, he took out his pen and quickly disassembled it, removed the spring, and reassembled it, working by feel alone. The pen went back into his pocket for later use; he got to work on straightening out the spring. The thin little wire probably wouldn't be strong enough to pick the lock of his handcuffs, but what could it hurt to try?

Well, it could hurt his hand when he accidentally jammed the wire into his palm. He wasn't used to working blind. This was going to be very difficult to maneuver without alerting her with all his squirming and fumbling about.

_Slow and steady, Crane. You can do this Do not doubt yourself._

It was just going to take a while.

"Hey, Squishykins," Al said abruptly, startling him into almost dropping the wire.

"What?"

"If you're hungry…"

"I'm not hungry," he snapped.

"Well, if you _were_ hungry, I could get you something next time I stop. Anything you want, Squishykins; what do you say?"

"Don't call me Squishykins."

"All right, Scarecrow," she said easily. "Do you want a hamburger?"

"No."

"How about a chicken sandwich?"

"No." She considered it.

"Ham?"

"No!"

"Oh, come on. You clearly need a hug and a sandwich, and I'm giving you one or the other, whether you like it or not."

A hug?

She wouldn't.

Would she?

"Do what you want," he grumbled. "I can't stop you."

"You're right. You can't." She poked him again, and he vowed to kill her, slowly, painfully, and as soon as possible.

She left the interstate again, smiling and apparently oblivious to his smoldering fury. Or maybe she was just enjoying it. Probably that, he thought as she poked him again.

"Why are you touching me?"

"Because it's more fun than touching myself."

He glared at the crazy bitch.

"What?"

"You heard me. I like to watch you twitch. Does that make me sadistic?" she asked with an exaggerated expression of wide-eyed innocence.

Then she poked him again.

"Yes! Yes, you're sadistic. Now, stop it." She laughed.

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry. Do you like Wendy's?" He ignored the question.

"You're _sorry_?"

"What? You almost sound disappointed."

"Hardly." She poked him again. "_Stop_!"

"Oh, admit it—you like the attention."

"You must be thinking of someone else," he said stiffly. "Nygma, maybe." There was no mistaking it—she perked up at the mention of the Riddler's name.

"You know him?"

"Of course I know him. He's been in Arkham almost as many times as I have."

"Really? What's he like?" She sounded far more excited than he would have expected. Why would she be interested in the Riddler?

"He's intelligent, but what you might call childish. Insecure, with a tendency to overcompensate. Useful for planning, but not so useful for following through with those plans. Good at chess. Why?"

"How about Man-Bat? Do you know Man-Bat?"

"Dr. Langstrom? I met him once. Why?" She giggled.

"Scruffy little bastard." That was not something he would have expected her to say in quite so delighted a tone.

"If you're looking for help abducting more super-criminals…"

"Oh, please," she laughed. "The Riddler is safe in Arkham, and Dr. Langstrom is married."

What did marriage have to do with anything? He didn't want to ask.

She pulled into the parking lot of some fast food place and put an end to the conversation.

"We're not going through the drive through?"

"Nope. Now it's my turn to go to the restroom. Are you going to tell me what you want?"

"Nope," he replied, imitating her tone.

"You smarmy git."

And then she left him alone.

Strange girl. He had the feeling that this was a scheduled stop, despite her efforts to make him think otherwise. And even though he seemed to be alone in the car with a perfect avenue of escape, he didn't doubt that she had planned ahead.

He went to work on the handcuffs, anyway. He knew better than to pass up any opportunity, even one that smelled like a trap.

A minute passed. Then five. Then ten. By then, he was sweating, shivering, and cursing under his breath, with a dull ache in his wrist that was going to develop into a very sharp pain if he didn't change positions soon. The damned little wire would not obey him; it kept bending instead of staying stiff in the lock. He wasn't a very skilled lockpick under the best conditions; he should have known this wasn't going to work. And now it was too late to try anything else.

He stuck the little bit of wire up his sleeve as the door opened. No reason to throw it away—it might not be helping him now, but that didn't mean he couldn't find some use for it later.

"You're still here," Al teased. "I'm so disappointed in you."

"I just couldn't stand to go without the pleasure of your company," he snarked back, eliciting a hearty cackle from the crazy bitch.

"I'm glad to see you have a sense of humor underneath that old maiden aunt act." She started the engine and, after a searching glance at him, turned the heat up all the way. "I got you a chicken sandwich and some fries. Stuff thyself." She took her own food out of the paper bag and tossed the rest at him. "Do you drink cokes?"

"No." He had put enough unnatural substances in his body over the years, willingly or otherwise, and he preferred not to put in any more.

But the fact that she had called it coke, rather than soda or pop, not the proper noun short for Coca-Cola, but the general term _coke_, brought him back to a place he had not wanted to think of in years.

Georgia.

"I wouldn't turn down a glass of tea, though," he said, trying not to appear too interested in her reaction.

She grinned.

"I guess that means the Mountain Dew is mine, then." She switched the positions of the cups in the cup holder and handed him the one that had been on her side. After a moment of contortion, he sipped it.

Tea, real iced tea, as sweet as he had ever tasted. He hadn't had tea like this since high school. He even detected the foul aftertaste of imitation sugar—she had sweetened it to her taste, exactly as he would have.

She was southern, all right. If not from Georgia, then from somewhere nearby.

So, what did that mean? What was her connection to him? She probably wasn't related. His mother's family were all tall, slender, and aristocratic-looking; what he had seen of his father's were burly brawler types. She was neither; short, solid but not muscular, built like _his_ exact opposite…not that he took after either side of his family very much, either.

She was too young to have a personal grievance, so she must be here on someone else's behalf. Griggs? Squires's family? Had he finally been connected with that attack after all these years?

Well, his true enemy would be revealed soon enough. Until then, he seemed to be stuck with her. She didn't seem interested in killing him right away, so there was always a chance that she could be tricked or manipulated into letting her guard down.

He ate his sandwich slowly, as if food were the last thing on his mind. He had learned many times over that it was never a good idea to appear too dependent on one's captors. If she got the idea that there was something he really wanted, that would only make her more likely to take it away, if only to force his cooperation. So whether he was hungry or not (and he was; it had been a long time since yesterday's lunch) there was no need to seem too eager.

"How is it?" she asked.

"Fine," he responded. That was the extent of the interaction he wanted. Of course, she had other ideas.


	4. Righteous Fury

Al didn't leave the man alone until she figured he was on the verge of tears—shaking (with more than cold) and too infuriated to speak. Then she gave him an hour to brood.

Most people didn't understand the simple effectiveness of repeatedly poking someone who couldn't fight back. It didn't even have to be in the ribs. Poking his leg, the same spot over and over again, had made him angrier, though less twitchy.

Okay, so she was being a sadistic bitch. It was just fun to make him twitch like that. And besides, she wasn't doing him any real harm, just bothering him, and getting a good bit of enjoyment out of it, too.

She would have been a little more polite if he hadn't been trying so hard to show her an impenetrable mask. She wasn't stupid; she knew he was human inside, and she recognized the trick he was trying to pull. He was walking a fine line there, trying to seem harmless but not helpless. He didn't want her to think he actually needed her. He didn't want to depend on her for anything.

Well, tough titty.

She made a point to poke him every time he started to withdraw. She waited until he was visibly shivering before she asked him if he was cold, and then turned the heat back up in spite of his lack of a response. She asked him if he was hungry and ignored each "no," forcing food on him anyway—and it was rather telling that he ate everything she ordered him to, instead of just eating a couple of bites to shut her up.

He was a real stubborn bastard. She knew it, and she let him know she knew it, in hopes that he would give up and act something like civil. She would if he did. But it was probably for the best that he didn't. If he actually asked her nicely and flashed her those big baby blues…well, she might just let him go. At any rate, her heart would grow three sizes, and then where would she find another heart-measuring device this close to Christmas?

It was when she started thinking like this that she knew she was getting a little too bored, so she reached over and poked him. This time, instead of the violent reactions she had been getting, he just grunted belligerently and curled up a little, resting his head against the car door.

That was probably not good.

"Squishykins?"

"What?" He sounded tired. And…well, if she didn't know any better, she would have sworn he had been crying.

Surely not. Not the Scarecrow. Was he finally playing the pity card, trying to make her feel guilty for mistreating her poor, helpless captive? (Insert stab of guilt here.) Or was there really something wrong?

"Are you getting hungry?" she asked. He shook his head. "Cold?" Another shake of the head. What she could see of his face looked awfully pale. "Carsick?" she guessed.

"No."

"Depressed?" He finally raised his head and glared at her with that good old fighting spirit.

"No."

"Then what's the problem?" He made a rude sound that she only wished she were able to imitate.

"Aside from being stuck with the lovely and talented Miss Not-Really-Named-Al for what, for all I know, could be the rest of my life, I haven't got a problem in the world." Now she realized what that strange quality was in his voice.

"You're sick!"

"You're not the first person to say so."

"I mean with a cold, you douchebag."

"Mmm." Lulled by the lack of savage poking, he relaxed slightly, leaning against the car door again.

"Well, don't get overexcited, or anything," she snapped. "Don't lose your head. Wouldn't want to lose that, yet." He didn't respond. "Are you fixing to drop dead?"

"Highly unlikely."

She wasn't too sure about that. He was looking awfully tired, and…

Oh. Tired, of course. It finally occurred to her that _he _had not planned for this. Unlike her, he wouldn't have had the benefit of a nice, long nap just before all this began. Other than his few hours of drugged unconsciousness, he probably wouldn't have gotten any sleep in at least thirty-six hours or so. And of course he wouldn't want to sleep in front of her. He was vulnerable enough already.

Well, the sun was setting, and she was getting close to the hotel she had planned to stop at, anyway. He would feel better after a good night's sleep.

And even if he didn't, well, _she_ would, and she would be better equipped to handle him.

She turned off the interstate for the last time that day, in some small town no one had ever heard of. If she hadn't been this way already, she never would have been able to find her way.

Judging by his glassy-eyed stare, he was fighting sleep with all his concentration. He wouldn't have the energy to look for landmarks.

This was just sad.

"Are you getting tired, Scarecrow?" she asked politely. If he was as tired as she suspected, the insolence would be lost on him, anyway. When he didn't answer, she reached over to pat him on the knee. He flinched. "Hey, don't do that."

"What?"

"Don't be afraid of me. I ain't going to hurt you." She winced as the _ain't_ slipped out. "Yarrg," she added to divert attention from the hick word.

"Yarrg?" he repeated.

"Yar, it be a pirate word."

"Be ye a pirate?" he asked in a tone so earnest it could only be sarcasm. She laughed, mentally applauding his spirit.

"Yar."

"I suppose you learned that from your captain." Ah, so he hadn't missed that. Oops.

"No, the captain picked it up from me. At least, I think so; it's hard to tell sometimes. But, really, Captain is just a nickname for a friend, and yarrg is just a word I throw around for no real reason. Because pirates be cool." He looked like he had stopped listening, so she fell silent.

She stopped the car in the parking lot of her chosen hotel. It took him a moment to rouse from his semi-stupor, but when the still and quiet penetrated his fog, he was quick to sit up straight, giving every evidence of being fully alert. If she didn't know the signs of exhaustion and sleep deprivation so well, she might even have believed his act.

But it was an act, and nothing else.

She left him alone while she went to negotiate for a room. This was the most dangerous time—if he was going to get away from her, it was going to be sometime when she had to leave him unsupervised. Maybe she was overestimating her own ability to subdue him…but she really didn't think so. If she hadn't been able to take him by surprise, if she had to face him at his best, he most definitely would have been able to kick her ass. One didn't do what he did for as long as he had without picking up a trick or two for fighting dirty, and she had _seen_ him take on people she knew would have handed her ass to her on a platter in seconds if she tried to take them in a fair fight. But now she had him at a disadvantage. The only way he was going to get away from her was to outsmart her, and while she had no doubts as to his ability to do just that, at least she was expecting it. And she had plans.

Now, her version of "negotiation" _usually_ involved explosives, or shovels at the very least, but she was more than capable of playing by the rules and keeping a low profile. And really, she wanted to prove that to herself as much as to the one she was doing all this for.

The bored, middle-aged woman behind the front desk handed over a pair of electronic keys without interest. She didn't seem to care that Al looked a good bit younger than the twenty-five years her ID asserted (in reality, she _was_ old enough to rent a hotel room, but not to rent a car, which was why she had gotten the fake in the first place. That, and she hadn't wanted the Scarecrow to get ahold of her license and learn her real name. The last thing she wanted was for him to escape and track her down later.)

When she got back to the car, the Scarecrow was clearly dozing—although when he saw her coming, he straightened and glared at her with some of that good old righteous fury.

_Good job, Squishykins. You keep up that fiction._

She opened the door, nearly pulling him out of the car. Oops. Handcuffs.

"How are you doing, Squishykins?" she asked sweetly. He glared at her.

"Peachy."

"That's good, because tomorrow's going to be more of the same." She reached down to poke him while his hands were still trapped. He twitched, but didn't bother telling her to stop. Well, that was no fun anymore. "We have a hotel room now. You want to go in or stay in the car?" He stared at her. She just waited, arms crossed, this time demanding an answer.

"In," he muttered.

"What's that, sweetums?"

"I would like to go in," he growled.

Oh, good enough, she decided when she saw that he was shivering again. She reached down for the handcuffs.

And he pulled the door shut on her hand.

"Shit!" She tried to pull her hand back. He was having none of it. "Let go!"

"Give me the keys."

"No!" He shrugged and gave the door a sharp yank. Ow, ow, ow, ow—

"Fine!" She reached into her pocket with her free hand and pulled out her keys, dangling them where he could see them. "Open the goddamn door!"

"Nice try." He started to roll down the window. Damn it. Clever bastard. But maybe not clever enough. She let her eyes fill with tears and gasped in very real pain—and then did exactly what she probably would have done anyway, and dropped the keys.

"I'm sorry," she stammered as pathetically as she could manage. He looked annoyed.

"Stop that. And give me the keys."

"Are you kidding me? I can't reach!"

"Try."

"Asshole! My arms are stumpy!" But she reached down for the keys, anyway. And, as expected, she was too short to reach. And, damn it, this _hurt_.

But he did surprise her when he suddenly threw open the door, catching her in the side of the head. She went sprawling across the pavement, and if she didn't have a circle of little cartoon crows chasing each other around her head, it wasn't for lack of trying.

She was only stunned for a moment, but that was quite long enough for him to pick up the keys between his feet. She kicked out at his ankle, and they clattered to the ground. She knocked them out of his reach, and only then got up to deal with him.

He got himself inside the car and shut and locked the door. Even with the adrenaline still pumping through her, she had to laugh at the sight of him rolling up the window, as if _that_ would help him.

"I hope you're proud of yourself," she said sweetly. "You almost made it. Maybe next time, you will." She gave him an encouraging smile that seemed to piss him off more than anything else she had done so far.

Well, she was no longer in the mood to be careful of his feelings.

Very calmly, she picked up the keys, unlocked the back door, and took out the two bags, and her CD holder for good measure. She was not about to leave him any possible weapons, not after this last performance. She also reached around to snatch off the blanket she had given him. There was no one around who would come close enough to see the handcuffs—any passersby might not even notice him in the car, in the dark—and she knew he wasn't going to try to attract any attention. If his own pride didn't stop him from asking for help, well, any kind of rescue would have to involve the police, and they both knew what would happen to him then. She didn't think he wanted to go back to Arkham if there was any possible way around it.

"See you, squish face," she said as she slammed the door. That surprised him, and she shot him a smirk before she picked up her stuff and walked away.

The weather was perfect up here, she reflected as she carefully breathed out a cloud of white vapor. The cold was already numbing the pain in her poor smashed hand, and while it was too dry for snow, it was more than cold enough. Wouldn't that be wonderful? She hadn't had a real White Christmas at home more than two or three times in her life, and the only one that really counted was the so-called "Blizzard of '93," which would have been called a "dusting" up here; it wouldn't have even been enough to get her out of school.

One of these days, she was really going to have to move north. Maybe not as far as Gotham, but somewhere with snow.

She let herself into the hotel room, which was almost as cold as it had been outside. This place didn't catch enough business to make it worthwhile to run heaters in the empty rooms, which was one of the reasons why she had chosen it.

She let the heater hum to life and went to the bathroom to run a little water over her hand. It was already starting to swell up, but she didn't think it was broken (and she was intimately familiar with the feeling of a stress fracture.) She would wrap it up, anyway. Better to keep it needlessly immobilized than to risk a repetition of the incident that had kept her in Das Boot for half a year.

She sat at the window while she tended to her hand, keeping a sharp eye on the Scarecrow. Not that there was really anything he could do. He looked considerably less than happy, though, so it was probably in her best interest to put off dealing with him for a little longer.

No problem. She had preparations to make, anyway.

The first thing she did was strip the bed and bring the sheets, blankets, and a pillow into the bathroom. The bathrooms were another reason why she had chosen this hotel. Bare, windowless, and with a door that swung _out_ into the room, this was the perfect place to hold a captive. And it wasn't so filthy and run down that she would be afraid to go inside, which was more than she could say for some places she had seen.

When she had the bathroom arranged to her satisfaction and the room was starting to warm up nicely, she took another look out the window, figuring the Scarecrow would be in a more cooperative mood by now.

He was gone.

"Oh, _damn_ it!" She grabbed her keys and ran outside. She was _so_ screwed if she lost him now. There was no time—

She reached the car and gave a sigh of relief. He was still there; he had just curled up, down where she couldn't see him, with his hands clasped tightly between his knees and his face awkwardly sandwiched between his shoulder and the seat. She tapped the window, and his head came up. He stared at his like a deer in headlights, not even angry anymore, just chalk-white and trembling.

"Are you going to cooperate if I try to take you inside?" she asked. He didn't answer. Nonchalantly, she turned away.

"Wait!" She turned back expectantly. He wouldn't look at her as he said, "I'll cooperate. Please? It's cold."

At that, she felt a massive stab of guilt. She should never have left him out here so long. But she didn't tell him that, of course.

She got in on the driver's side and climbed over. His hands were like two little blocks of ice.

"You _are_ cold." She didn't expect an answer; the fact that he didn't pull away from her as he had every other time was answer enough. Well, body heat was the best way to warm up someone with hypothermia.

"Y-you would g-get al-long with M-mister F-freeze just f-fine," he said, which was far more answer than she had expected.

"Don't die, okay?" she said as she unlocked the cuffs. He didn't bother to answer, and he didn't take the opportunity to fight her when his hands were free. He just tucked them under his armpits and looked so miserable, he couldn't possibly be faking it.

But she grabbed the back of his shirt anyway, before she opened the door. She wasn't fool enough to trust him completely, no matter how pitiful he looked.

He didn't get out of the car; he _fell_ out, taking her with him. Fully expecting this to be some kind of trick, she managed to land on top of him, but all he did was gasp and draw away from the frozen ground.

"You okay?" she asked. He nodded. She couldn't see it, but she felt the movement of his head against her shoulder. "Okay, I'm getting up. You stay still." She got off him, moving very slowly, being careful not to damage him, but equally careful not to take her hand off him, even for a moment. "Can you get up now?" she asked when she was satisfied with her balance and her grip on his shirt. He moved very stiffly, but he managed to get to his knees, and then she dragged him to his feet. "Good. Now, you can either try running away again, or you can come inside with me. I really hope you'll decide to be practical. We both know you won't get very far on foot with night falling." She took a step toward the building, and he moved with her, offering not the slightest bit of resistance. "Thank you. I don't really have the right music for a chase scene."

Actually, she did have a song on one of her CDs that she had always thought would be perfect for a chase, but it was really only appropriate for zombies, and then only in a comedy. But this wouldn't be the time to tell him that, not when he was as cold and stiff as a walking corpse himself. Besides, she wouldn't have time to get the CD and play it if he took it into his head to run, and he wouldn't really get the proper effect if she just hummed it while she chased him down.

None of that mattered right now. All that mattered was that the room was warming up, coffee was brewing, and with any luck he would lose that pathetic look of his before her cold heart melted and she was forced to treat him to a visit from the Pumpkin Juice Fairy.

She herded him into the bathroom and released him, keeping herself between him and the door.

"Take off your shoes and get in the tub," she ordered.

"W-what?" Impatiently, she pointed out the little nest of blankets she had made up for him in the bathtub.

"You want to get warm? Get _in_." She didn't wait around to see what he would do. She just went out into the main room to get a cup of coffee. It was only decaf, which she wouldn't have touched with a thirty-nine-and-a-half foot pole normally, but she wanted him _warmed_, not _wakened._

When she went back into the bathroom, he had wrapped himself up in the blankets, but was still sitting up, shivering slightly and making a heartfelt effort to remain alert. So distrustful. She handed over the little plastic cup. He accepted it with a suspicious frown that might have passed for gratitude if she had squinted and lost both her contacts.

She was relieved to see that his color returned quickly, and he stopped shivering midway through the coffee. She left him then, reassured that he wasn't going to drop dead.

She waited by the closed door for any sound of movement, but she heard nothing. So she made her own noisy display by dragging the heavy bed over to block the door. Then she got out her laptop and ordered a pizza, wondering what he would make of her reluctance to use the phone.

She didn't consider it a crippling phobia. After all, she could and would use the phone if she absolutely had to. It was just that food didn't qualify as that level of necessity.

Well, her mother had been telling her to see a counselor about that.

Maybe she would talk to the Squishykins after all this was over.

(And maybe pigs would fly.)

She watched some TV while waiting for the pizza guy. There was nothing on, of course, but this hotel offered video games, which could prove interesting later. She channel-surfed for an acceptable amount of time before the knock at the door forced her up off the bed.

She tipped the guy and sent him on his way, and reclaimed her spot on the bare mattress.

"Hungry, Squishykins?" she called through the bathroom door. "I've got pizza. Get it while it's hot." He gave no indication that he heard or cared. _Fine, if that's the way you want to play it._

While she ate, she watched part of a truly horrible science fiction movie that she had sworn never to sit through again; its only redeeming factor was the impossibly appealing lead actor. When one of the characters spoke the line that signaled the high point of the movie ("All our troubles are over!" Squee! Cue cheesy music!) she carefully moved the bed out a few inches, opened the door, and dropped the box of what was now half a pizza inside the bathroom.

"Food," she said, meeting his startled gaze briefly before she slammed the door on him.

She waited until she heard the sounds of furtive movements inside before she moved away from the door. Only when she was satisfied that he wasn't in some kind of shock, fit, or general malaise did she finally push the bed back to block the door again.

He would be fine. He had food, he had water, he had blankets, and she—

Well, her choice of an older, not-too-prosperous hotel had paid off. She had the original Zelda to keep her occupied.

It was with great reluctance that she finally put herself to bed.


	5. Hippos and Puppy Dogs

Al woke in the morning after just barely five hours of sleep. That was enough for her, insomniac that she was. She could go back to the sleeping pills when she got home, but for now, five hours was enough.

But would it be enough for him? He had, after all, had a long, hard day. Between stress, the uncomfortable surroundings, and the escape plans he had probably been working on all night, she doubted that he had slept even as well as she had.

Oh, well. Poor little Squishykins could always sleep in the car, if he would just let down his guard enough to close his eyes around her. After all, she wasn't going to suddenly attack him in his sleep. But he had no way of knowing that, so she might as well let him have his paranoia.

If nothing else, she could learn from him.

She dragged the bed back to its original position, making as little noise as possible. She still wanted to keep the element of surprise on her side. She might have him in her power now, but that didn't mean he couldn't turn the tables at any time. Actually, she was surprised this had gone as well as it had. It wouldn't surprise her at all if she opened the bathroom door only to have a garbage can come crashing down on her head.

The garbage can! That was what she had forgotten. Damn it! He had probably already found it and come up with something diabolical. She didn't know what…but then, _she_ wasn't the evil genius, now was she?

(Well, she did try…)

When she tried to turn the doorknob, she found it locked.

Diabolical, indeed. But she was prepared for this.

It was amazing what someone could learn going to high school in a small town. Power to the band kids, she thought as she swiftly and silently picked the lock.

She stood well back from the door as she let it swing open, but she needn't have bothered. The Scarecrow was fast asleep, curled up in the bathtub with the blankets tangled around his long limbs. The expression on his face was far from peaceful.

Bad dreams? She'd better wake him up, then.

She went out to get her flashlight, a cute little child's toy shaped like a hippopotamus. When she came back, he had turned over and looked like he needed a hug more than any other man alive.

She shined the flashlight in his face, and it laughed, rather like Dwight Frye in _Dracula_.

He jerked awake, smacking his forehead against the side of the tub, and then went perfectly still, as if stunned. She couldn't help laughing. He looked up at her with a wounded expression.

"Oh, not the puppy dog eyes!" She reached down to help him out of the bathtub. He flinched. "Twitchy little bastard, ain'tcha?" He didn't crack a smile. "Well, I guess I can't really blame you. Come on. It's time for us to go. Do you need to take a shower?" He nodded slowly. "You'd better go first, then. But don't waste too much time. I know you don't want me to get nervous and burst in on you." He looked about as horrified as she would have been in his place. Poor guy. She couldn't help being a little amused by his plight, but she _could_ try to make things a little less rough on him. "Leave the door unlocked. I promise I'll knock first, okay?" She waited for confirmation. He just stared at her. "Okay, you have fifteen minutes." Ass. "One, two, three, go!"

She slammed the door behind her when she left. Sulky little git. Maybe he did deserve what she was putting him through. Maybe just a little

Well, probably more than a little, considering who he was.

And, considering who he was, it was definitely a bad idea to leave him alone, even for a minute. But, hey, she was hungry, so when she heard the sound of running water, she snuck out to the vending machine at the end of the hall. At least she could still see the door, so he probably wouldn't be slipping past her just yet.

She had enough change to feed them both for a couple of days. There were honey buns, chocolate doughnuts, corn chips, candy bars…all kinds of good stuff that would probably send them both into insulin shock. She bought two of everything.

It would be fun to see him on a sugar high. And maybe all the chocolate and junk food would put him in a better mood today. He was no fit company when he was all sullen like this.

The water shut off just as she got back to the hotel room. She always had been the Master of Timing.

She gave him a few minutes to get dressed, then knocked sharply on the door. It was a warning, not a request; she went in without waiting for a response. He had followed directions and left the door unlocked. That was something, anyway.

His hair was still wet, and the clean clothes she had left for him looked as if they'd been thrown on a bit more hastily than he might have liked. Clean and alert, he still looked like hell. He must have had a worse night than she'd thought.

"Well, Squishykins, I have a problem."

"What?" He took a step back when she moved toward him, still distrustful. And after she had gone out of her way _not_ to hurt him. She could have done any number of things to keep him from running—pump him full of sedatives, lock him in the trunk, tie him hand and foot, put him in a straitjacket, break his kneecaps, hit him over the head with a rock…even neglecting to feed him and letting him suffer in the cold probably would have weakened him enough that any escape attempt he made would be ineffective. But, no, she had gone ahead and made him as comfortable as she possibly could without actually letting him get away. And he still looked like some poor, abused puppy who was trying to dodge a well-placed kick.

Like she would ever kick anything with eyes like that.

But it was about time she showed him what she _could_ do.

"I need to take a shower, too," she said. His expression changed instantly. Clearly, he understood what she was saying. "So, what do _you_ think I should do to keep you in line?" she asked, sounding uncomfortably like her mother.

"Can't you just trust me not to run away?"

"Sure." She grabbed his arm before he could flinch away, and he stiffened, clearly not used to being touched. "I'll trust you as soon as you trust me."

"I see your point," he said, still quietly fighting against her grip on his arm.

"So, I guess this means I have to tie you up, right?"

"If you must." She smiled. He _really_ didn't want her to touch him. They could have gotten along so well, under other circumstances.

"There is another alternative. I brought a straitjacket."

"No," he said instantly, surprising her.

"No? But it would be so hot."

"I…" His face went suddenly scarlet. "'Hot'? As in…"

"Hot as in kinky, my sexy little Scarecrow." She grinned at his befuddled expression. "That was a joke."

"Well…I…" He shook his head. "I don't care. I'm not wearing a straitjacket."

"Which one of us is in charge here, Squishykins?" she asked with mock severity. He tried once again to pull his arm out of her grasp.

"Find something else."

"No."

"_Please_."

"Why?" she demanded, curious as to what would make this stubborn, thoroughly hostile creature resort to the magic word.

"Have you ever worn a straitjacket?"

"No…" He gave her a look that clearly said, _Well, there you have it, then._ "Look, Squishykins, it's nothing personal," she said soothingly. "I just don't trust anything less right now. You know, not while I'm in the shower."

"Oh, is that what it is?" he blurted. "If I wanted a peep show, I could have gotten one in Gotham."

"It's not just that, Squishykins. I can't go chasing you down out there all wet and naked. What would the neighbors think?"

"Please don't call me Squishykins," he said, making an effort at a reasonable tone. Well, two could play at that game.

"If I promise to stop calling you Squishykins, will you wear the straitjacket?"

"No." It was then that he realized that she had been gently but inexorably drawing him out into the main room. He saw the dreaded garment lying across a nearby chair, made an offended sort of gasp, and tried to bolt. Since she had been expecting exactly that, it wasn't difficult to grab the straitjacket before she wrestled him to the ground.

Two bloody noses, three black eyes, a split lip and one serious headache later, she had him fully restrained, and sitting on his back and holding his legs was enough to make him stop struggling…eventually. She hadn't expected it to be quite _that_ hard to get him into the straitjacket. She had never tried to put one on an unwilling victim before, but she did know what tricks to look out for, and she was confident that she had gotten the thing, if not perfect, at least tight enough that he wasn't going to get out of it in the next few minutes.

"How's your nose?" she asked. He growled at her. She managed not to laugh at him. "Mine is still bleeding. If you want to get cleaned up, now's the time." When he didn't answer, she eased her way off of him. He didn't move. "Squishykins?" She prodded him. "Oh, Squishykins?" He was perfectly conscious, she could see, staring up at her with the kind of smoldering fury that yesterday's annoyance hadn't begun to approach. "Okay, I'm sorry about the carpet burn. Raccoon is a good look for you." She giggled. He glared. "Will you stop looking at me like that? I admit it, you're scaring me. Okay?" His expression didn't change a hair. Self-consciously, she put a finger to her bloody lower lip. "Well…I don't want to bleed out, and I'm sure you don't, either, so…let's go get cleaned up. I…could make you an ice pack." He just kept glaring. She actually shivered. "I'll just…give you a hand, then, shall I?"

Yeah. If by "give a hand" she meant "drag his ass across the floor." He wasn't at all interested in helping her out in any way, and while he probably weighed a little less than she did, it was still a bitch to haul his dead weight all the way back into the bathroom.

"I don't suppose you'd be willing to stand up on your own two feet anytime soon?" she asked after she had set him up against a blank stretch of wall. He gave her the Look of Death. "That's a no, then."

She grabbed two handfuls of toilet paper and held one against his leaking nose. Tried, rather; he turned his head away the moment she came near.

"Bleed, then," she snapped, and turned away, watching herself in the mirror as she worked to stop the flow of her own blood (and hers was worse than his, anyway, so she told her whining little conscience to just _shut up_.)

After a few moments, she heard him cough. She turned back to look at him, and…oh, she had never seen anyone look as pathetic as he could. He was sitting with his head down, hair obscuring his face, dripping blood on the floor, and managing to convey, without moving or looking at her, that he was in a state of pure, helpless rage.

"Are you through being stubborn?" His only answer was so sway slightly. She dropped swiftly to her knees, concerned—she didn't think he had lost enough blood to actually pass out, but if the sight of it was making him sick (as it sometimes did to her, especially when it was her own blood…) But, no, he was just having trouble keeping his balance without the use of his arms.

She grabbed another handful of toilet paper and fastened it (gently!) around his nose. This time, he didn't pull away, but he did keep giving her the doomy glare.

"You didn't have to fight me," she reminded him.

Glare!

"You _really_ don't like this thing, do you?"

GLARE!

"Well, you don't have to wear it very long, so you can just stop thinking about strangling me with my own intestines."

Glare! But a thoughtful glare, this time. Great. If he hadn't been thinking about giving her a taste of her own favorite punishment already (and very few people would think of _that_ first of all) he would be now.

She took her hand away from his face, satisfied that he had stopped bleeding.

"Isn't that better?" she asked.

Glare!

"It's not broken, is it?"

Glare!

"You know, you're being extremely uncooperative."

G-L-A-R-E.

"Well, I'm going to blindfold you now."

Squinty-eyed glare.

"You'll have to let me know if it hurts. 'Kay?"

Glare, glare, glare. Yeah, and that was _never_ going to get old.

She put his own mask on him, with the eyeholes on the wrong side. No doubt that pissed him off even more, but since she couldn't see his expression, she could pretend she didn't know it.

Idly, she wondered why he was so adamant about not wanting the straitjacket. Bad memories? It was possible. The straitjacket would have to be something he associated with Arkham, and she couldn't imagine any _good_ memories coming from that place.

Maybe it wasn't the nicest thing to do, putting him through all this. But it was necessary; she had to remind herself of that. She had a job to do, and come hell or high water she was going to do it. The end would most certainly justify the means.

Although it was going to be a shame to hand him over. She had spent such a long and pleasurable time studying him and his methods. She would never have another chance to stalk him as he gathered his test subjects and formulated his brilliant plans. She had learned so much watching him, she was almost ready to take on Gotham herself. But, honestly, she would have liked to be able to learn a little more from him. Maybe even with his permission.

For now, though, she just wanted a shower.


	6. Running Water

He listened to the sound of running water and fought the urge to relax. Rain drumming on a roof had always been enough to put him to sleep…

But this was not rain. He was not in a safe place. And he would not give her that victory.

He managed not to yawn, or do anything else incriminating. It was easy enough to focus on the slow and intimate revenge he was going to take on her the moment he got free. Unfortunately, while he could clearly picture every least little thing he was going to do to her, he couldn't quite see how he was going to get himself into a situation in which such creative forms of physical and psychological torture would be viable.

At least focusing on her future torment kept him away from the verge of panic. He could feel it building, in spite of the oddly soothing water sounds and the exhaustion that told him to just go back to sleep and deal with all this later. He _hated_ the feeling of being trapped (and for very good reasons.) But fear could be kept under control; he wouldn't be worth his salt if he let this _child_ defeat him in his chosen field.

The water stopped running, and he fervently hoped that she would slip and crack her head open on the side of the tub. Unfortunately, she seemed to be a little more coordinated than that. He heard her brushing her teeth, and imagined what would happen if she fell forward with enough force to drive that toothbrush through the back of her skull.

Granted, he would prefer to take a more active role in her demise, but an accident would kill her just as dead.

"Don't move, Squishykins. I'm taking off your mask."

Oh, he was going to destroy her utterly, leaving nothing but ashes and a twitching shell.

She pulled his mask off his face, and he tried not to let her see him wince. Between the asshole with the gun and her slamming him face-first into the carpet, his face must be one big, puffy bruise. And judging by the expression on her face, he must look even worse than he felt.

She reached out to touch the side of his face, and he turned away. He wouldn't have wanted anyone touching that tender spot, but especially not her. Unfortunately, he didn't have anywhere else to go.

Her cool touch was far lighter than he would have expected as she prodded his bruised cheekbone. Was she trying to be gentle? Or was she just afraid that someone might come to the rescue if she made him cry out in pain?

"This is starting to look really spectacular. Are you sure you don't want to put some ice on that? It might help the swelling."

He stared at her, contemplating the logistics of strangling her with her own intestines, as she had mentioned earlier. With the right equipment and a steady hand, he could keep her alive at least that long…

"Okay, well…have you already brushed your teeth?" He nodded slightly, wanting her near his face even less than he wanted to communicate with the crazy bitch. "Good, then we can go." She reached down to haul him to his feet. He went limp, and felt an odd kind of satisfaction when she couldn't lift him more than an inch or so.

She let him go too suddenly for him to catch himself. He hit the wall harder than expected, but reacted only by glaring at her.

"Why are you so stubborn, Squishykins?"

He glared at her (just for a change of pace.)

"Please get up," she said, trying again to drag him to his feet. "I really don't have time for this. If you want me to take that straitjacket off you, just get up and come with me."

"Take it off now, or I'm not moving." She frowned.

"I'm going to have my hands full. I don't want you free to run off. And, I'm sorry, but I just can't trust your promise. Not even if you give me your word as a Spaniard."

_A Spaniard?_ It took him a moment to realize that she was parroting an old movie, and a moment longer to remember the correct form of the quote. _No good. I've known too many Spaniards._

"I swear," he said solemnly, "on the soul of my grandmother." Al grinned as if delighted by his response. Then, sardonically, she raised an eyebrow and smirked at him.

"But _you're_ the one who killed her."

Well, he couldn't say she hadn't done her homework. How much did she know about him, anyway?

Swearing more profusely than was probably necessary, she forced him up off the ground, to the point where falling would be more painful than it was worth. Reluctantly, he set his feet to support his weight.

"Now, isn't that better?"

Glare.

She let him go, and he fell back against the wall, unable to find any semblance of balance. Hastily, she grabbed hold of him before he could topple over.

"You need help?"

"No."

"Okay, then." She let him go again and laughed as she watched him wobble. She made no move to steady him again. "Ready? Let's go."

He glared at her, but he followed her out into the hotel room.

"Oh, good. Thanks for cooperating, sweetums." She picked up her black trench coat and surprised him by putting it on him instead of herself. "I can't just let you walk outside in a straitjacket," she explained in answer to his obvious startlement. "Besides, it's cold out. Where will I be if I let you freeze to death?"

A very good question, and if he knew the answer, then plenty of things would begin to come together. He glanced down at the coat (far too short; it just reached his knees) and noticed that the purple silk lining was ripped, as if it had repeatedly caught on something around her left ankle. How had that happened? And when?

A quick glance at her feet told him that he was wearing an ordinary pair of sneakers and perfectly normal pants; no strange jewelry or spiky things that might have shredded the lining of an obviously well-loved coat, although it was possible that she wore that kind of thing at other times. She had purple streaks running through her dark hair; they weren't very noticeable, but they argued that she could have been one of those black-clad, mascara-heavy spikes-and-leather types he had seen running around Gotham like pale imitations of death. Then again, those kids always seemed to be in a state of hostile fury or suicidal angst, and she hadn't thrown any temper tantrums or burst into tears yet. Besides, she looked comfortable enough in a cheerful sweater that would have burst into flames on contact with one of the angsty ones. Maybe she just liked purple.

"Move it along," she said, picking up the two neatly-packed bags (leaving him still wondering what she had brought along.) Thus laden, it would be much harder for her to make a grab for him, he reflected, noticing how tightly she had laced the straps through her fingers for a better grip. He made sure to lag a bit behind her, letting his balance seem far worse than it actually was.

She was walking with a bit of a limp. Had he managed to hurt her more than he thought, fighting over the straitjacket? Or had she been injured sometime in the past? A cast could have frayed the inside of her coat like that.

Either way—

She stopped short. He edged away from her.

"Ow—my contacts."

He didn't have to think twice. A wriggle of his shoulders rid him of the coat even as she was reaching up to rub her eyes. And then, in perfect silence, he ran.


	7. Bad and Worse News

He wasn't going to get very far running in a straitjacket, he knew. He would have to lose it, and to do that, he would have to find a safe place to hide for a few moments. All of the rooms would be locked, but…

He spotted the laundry room, and wasted not one second on further thought. By the time he heard her curse, realizing that he was no longer standing beside her, he was diving headfirst into an abandoned cart of soiled linens…and trying not to think too hard about what might be touching him.

Straitjackets. Anyone who had lived at Arkham knew them well, and anyone with half a brain would learn all he could to be able to escape them.

This one wasn't going to be the most difficult he had ever gotten out of—it was nearly impossible for just one person to restrain someone effectively—but her attention to detail was going to make it a damn sight harder than he had hoped. She had left more slack than the orderlies at Arkham did, but not quite enough for him to slip free without the extra room.

Damn. The Joker could do this without breaking a sweat.

He forced his left shoulder out of its socket, and limited his reaction to a soft grunt of pain. This was never going to be anything like easy…but there were more than a few things he could manage to do on strength of will alone.

He had dislocated his left shoulder six times as a child (or, rather, someone else had dislocated it _for_ him.) Perhaps that was why he could pop it out now with a sharp pain and an audible snap, but with relative ease. Unfortunately, the other shoulder was not quite so simple. Oh, he _could_ do it, and had enough times before…

_Mind over matter…_

Bracing himself against the side of the cart, he exerted a careful pressure on the joint in question. Almost…just a little harder, now…a little more…

"Squishykins?" He gritted his teeth. "Oh, Squishykins? Where are you at?" Now he squeezed his eyes shut, wondering if she was mangling the language just to get a rise out of him. He wouldn't put it past her.

But the sounds of her footsteps were coming closer, and he was not going to let a moment of carelessness lead her to him. He wormed his way to the bottom of the cart, until no part of him should be visible if she happened to look inside.

His left shoulder was throbbing painfully, and his right still would not come free. Why his own body should be so stubbornly resistant to his will, he had no idea. A little physical pain should be no deterrent to the Master of Fear.

Willpower, damn it all to hell. Determination. Discipline. _Mental strength_. He could do this.

But not easily, and certainly not quietly. He tried one more time, and felt his shoulder give a little before snapping right back into place.

_Traitor,_ he thought, wishing he could take out his frustration on a few incompetent henchmen.

"Oh, Squish-y-kins…"

Reluctantly, he gave up on his efforts for the moment. _Pass me by. Just pass me by._

"Are you here?"

_No!_

The laundry cart rocked back as she gave it what could only have been a deliberate shove. He gasped a little as jarring pain shot through his arm, and then tried, by sheer force of will, to smother the sound that had already left him.

He failed, of course. Even the strongest will couldn't turn back time.

"Ha!" Al crowed. He berated himself for making such a lousy pun, even unintentionally and within the confines of his own mind, as what proved to be a broom handle poked him in the back. A few seconds later, she had ruthlessly stripped away his concealing sheets and towels. "Hi, there!" she said brightly. "I have bad news, and worse news."

He closed his eyes and told himself that if he just stopped believing in her, she would go away. (That did work sometimes.) Yes, this could all be some very unpleasant dream. The Mad Hatter might be playing a trick on him. Or maybe he had spilled some of his powdered fear toxin in the tin of Earl Grey.

An interesting idea, now that he thought about it…

A hand on his elbow put an end to his self-indulgent fantasy. He braced himself in time to avoid any further injury, but she evidently did not miss the pained look that crossed his face, or the sharp intake of breath as she hauled him once again to a relatively vertical position

"What's the matter? Don't tell me you hurt yourself getting in there."

"Yes," he said. It was simpler than the truth—and if she thought he might be able to escape the straitjacket, who knows, she might come up with something worse.

"What did you hurt?" He didn't answer, so she gave him a little shake.

"Ow! My shoulder, all _right_?"

"Which shoulder?"

"Left," he said quickly, before she could get any more bright ideas. She nodded in satisfaction and took hold of his right elbow.

"Get out," she ordered.

"Can't," he said in the same tone. She frowned at him.

"Why?" It was amazing, the nuances she packed into that single word. He felt like giving her a smirk of victory, except that would have put an end to his carefully wrought manipulation. This might not end with him free and her comatose with fear, but he thought he could leave her feeling somewhat shaken, and that would give him something to build on in the future.

"I can't swing my leg up that high," he said reasonably. "I can't pull myself over, and I don't have room to make a running start. You'll just have to help me out of this straitjacket. Before someone else comes along and sees us."

"I have a better idea," she said. "Sit down." She let go of his arm and very calmly reached out and overturned the cart, spilling him and the laundry out on the floor. Fittingly enough, the impact knocked his arm back into place. The universe was just not on his side. "I told you to sit down," Al said.

Would it help to glare at her some more?

"Well? Aren't you going to ask me about my news?" Right, the bad news and worse news.

"No. Why? Should I?" She wouldn't be able to resist telling him, anyway, if it was something that she thought would bother him.

"Whatever," she said, and he couldn't help shooting her another glare. That word was completely out of place in the vocabulary of someone who would quite obviously not be satisfied with _whatever_. She had plans, she was smart enough to leave as little as possible to chance, and now she had something she _obviously_ wanted to tell him. There was no _whatever_ about it.

"Come on, get up." She tugged none to gently on the back of his straitjacket.

"Why do you just assume that once you've caught me, I'll go along without a fight?"

"That would only be fair." She managed to get him standing, and he gave her a rather muted glare.

"What does _fair_ have to do with it?"

"Not much, I suppose." She reached up and grabbed his ear, like a mother disciplining a naughty son. "March."

"A-ah—ow!" he exclaimed, too shocked to do anything but follow her out to the car. She giggled, taking a perverse delight in his discomfiture.

"So, the bad news is I've lost my contacts," she said cheerfully. "And, unlike you, Squishykins, I'm actually farsighted. Now, I can wear my glasses, but my peripherals are pretty bad, so I won't be able to watch you. So you're going in the trunk."

In the trunk? Away from the crazy bitch? That was the best news he had heard all day.

She kept her grip on his ear as she unlocked the trunk with her left hand. Thanks to that, it wasn't hard not to let his satisfaction show.

He looked down into the cramped space, which looked completely devoid of anything useful. But, if nothing else, there must be a spare tire in a hidden compartment, along with the tools to change it. Right?

Her shove took him by surprise. He fell, landing facedown, half in the trunk and half out of it. She pushed his feet inside before he could resist.

"Sorry, squish face," she said with what almost sounded like genuine regret, as she reached above her head to close the trunk.

"Wait! What about the straitjacket?"

"Well," she said with a shrug, "that's the worse news."

And she closed the trunk, leaving him alone in a small, dark, cold, airless space.

In a straitjacket.

Damn it.


	8. Dark Wool

All evidence to the contrary, Al was not a heartless bitch. Oh, she tried, but somewhere down in that blackened pit she called a soul, there was a little sparkle of humanity that kept coming to the surface at the most inopportune moments.

So after she locked him in the trunk, she stayed nearby, listening to make sure he would be all right. She heard a few halfhearted thumps as he kicked out at the walls in frustration, followed by a sneeze, and then silence.

So, she was right. He was sick. That, or the dust in there was bothering him.

When she was sure he wasn't going to explode, she went back to get the bags she had dropped. She lovingly picked up her crumpled trench coat, straightening wrinkles and brushing away the dirt that clung to the dark wool. The man should be shot for mistreating such a good coat, honestly.

She stowed her bags in the car and carefully unfolded the blanket she had covered him with yesterday. She would have to give it to him—she really didn't want him to freeze—but she wasn't sure what would happen when she opened the trunk. Every time she thought she had him pinned down, he managed to surprise her as violently as possible. The only thing that had saved her so far was that she could think on her feet, while he seemed to need a little more time to plan.

And leaving him alone in there would give him plenty of time for that…

_All right, do it quick. Like a band-aid._

She unlocked the trunk and flung it open, prepared to use the blanket as a shield.

But it wasn't necessary this time. He just glared up at her, shivering slightly and looking absolutely pathetic (without losing an ounce of rage.)

"Here," she said, tossing the blanket over him. "Stay warm. I'll stop and feed you later."

"You said you'd take off the straitjacket."

"Sorry. If I can't see you, this is the next best thing. I'm not leaving you _loose_ in here."

"Wait!"

She slammed the trunk shut. He yelled something that was muffled, but probably pretty unflattering. She smiled. Poor little guy.


	9. Straitjacket and Some Dust

Driving alone wasn't much fun. There was no one to poke. And she kept getting the feeling that he must have gotten free by now, and the next time she opened the trunk, she would find nothing but the straitjacket and some dust.

So after a couple of hours, when the rhythmic thuds started up, she was almost relieved. At least if he was kicking, she knew he was still back there.

But the _thump-thump-thump_ got old after an hour without stopping, especially since it was just slightly out of sync with her bass. And he showed no signs of tiring. If anything, he was kicking _harder_ now.

What was he trying to do, break through the solid steel?

(Was it steel? Like she knew how a car was made.)

_Thump._

"Stop that," she muttered, and glanced at the nearest sign. _Thump._ They were coming up on the place where she had planned to stop, but she couldn't very well take a break with him acting like this. _Thump._ Someone would be sure to call the cops if they heard these heavy thuds coming from an empty car in a parking lot. _Thump._ Damn it. _Thump. _Damn it. _Thump._ "Damn it!"

She took the exit anyway, and turned away from the fast food, driving down what seemed to be an abandoned stretch of highway. Good. She didn't know what she would find down here, but she was sure she would know what she was looking for when she found it.

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

"Knock it off!" she yelled.

_Thump._

Fine. This was deserted enough.

She drove off the road, narrowly missing a clump of trees. For lack of anything better to do, she gave the trees a dirty look, knowing that if he somehow managed to run out into the woods, she wasn't likely to find him very quickly. And that much lost time would be a disaster.

At least the sudden turbulence had put an end to the kicking.

She got out, breath steaming in the cold air, and threw open the trunk.

"What?" she demanded.

The glare he gave her now was more furious than all the previous ones combined.

"What do you _think_?" he asked with a jerky little twitch that probably would have been wild gesticulation if he could have moved his arm.

_All this fuss over a straitjacket?_

"Why should I?" she snapped, fully expecting his answer to involve the words 'slow and painful death for you and everything you love.'

"It hurts," he blurted.

"Oh." She stared at him. "It does?" He looked away from her, clearly humiliated to have to admit this out loud. She reached out to touch him, and then snatched her hand away, suddenly suspecting a trick. "What does it…feel like?" she asked lamely.

"When you wear a straitjacket too long, your hands go numb, blood pools in your elbows, and your shoulders stiffen." He spoke quickly, in an oddly flat tone. "It's unpleasant. Please make it stop."

Oh, how could she resist that? But, still, she hesitated.

"If this is just some clever ruse to escape…"

"It isn't."

"And how can I know that for sure? I mean, what if you try to fight me again? Then what am I supposed to do?" He squirmed a little, and finally looked up at her again.

"Please." His eyes were bright with something other than physical pain, and something in her screamed at her to stop torturing the poor guy, because eyes like that didn't lie.

But her rational side knew that he was a far better manipulator than any _normal_ person, and she would be an idiot to trust him.

"Can you give me some kind of proof, or am I just going to have to take your word that you won't try to knock me out and run off?" The look in his eyes quickly changed to suppressed anger.

"_Please. Let. Me. Out._"

"Not if you're going to be all tetchy about it." She reached up as if to close the trunk.

"No!" His cry was so anguished, she actually froze in place, staring down at him in surprise.

"What?"

He resolutely refused to look at her as he spoke, so softly and hesitantly that she could barely make out the words.

"Lyle Bolton. He…hurt…"

"Okay," she interrupted. "Don't move." He flinched as she reached around to undo the straps. Trust him to come up with exactly the right thing to make her set him free. And now she felt terrible about prodding old wounds.

He wasn't making this up. From what she knew about Lock-Up, she would have been surprised if the poor (_poor?_) Scarecrow _hadn't_ been traumatized somehow. What was more surprising was that it hadn't occurred to her already. (She didn't often develop strong feelings for other human beings, but for Bolton, she had—when she called him a bastard, it was _not_ the term of affection it usually was.)

As she pulled the straitjacket off him, she had to remind herself that the Scarecrow was not exactly pure as the driven snow, and she had better keep her guard up.

The moment he was free, he did the last thing she had expected, and curled into a little ball, protecting his arms and hiding his face behind his knees.

"Do you…want to talk about it?" she asked. He didn't answer. "Okay, well…if there's anything you want to do while we're stopped, you might want to get up and do it." He still didn't move. She reached out to put a hand on his shoulder, carefully, fully aware that he might be preparing to strike. He jerked away as if he had been burned. "Look, you're going to have to move sooner or later. I've got to tie you up or something before we move on." He moved then, shifting position just enough to let his vivid blue eyes bore into hers.

"You're very cruel."

She found herself momentarily at a loss for words, feeling oddly stung.

"I am not! You're out of the straitjacket, aren't you? Now, get out and drain your lizard. We're not stopping again." When he seemed unwilling to do anything but stare at her (perhaps unfamiliar with the term "draining the lizard") she took matters into her own hands and dragged him, inch by inch, out of the car.

The moment his feet touched the frozen mud, he slipped, throwing all his weight against her, and only some kind of Christmas miracle kept them both from crashing to the ground.

(Honestly, a miracle. Normally, she was as graceful as a three-legged gazelle.)

How she managed to catch him and remain standing, she would never know, but she suddenly found herself with her arms around the Scarecrow, exactly the punishment she had teased him with earlier. Their faces were just inches apart, and to the casual observer, they would probably look for all the world like a pair of lovers on the verge of an earth-shattering kiss.

He looked horrified.

"Wow, awkward," she said, and let him go. He fell, and she burst out with rather forced laughter. When she reached down to help him up, he jerked his hand away from hers. "Little bunny foo-foo, knock that crap off."

"_What_ did you call me?" She rolled her eyes.

"Weren't you ever a child? 'Little bunny foo-foo, hopping through the forest, picking up the field mice and bopping them on the head.' Then there's something about a fairy who comes along and tells her to knock that crap off. I don't know. The point is, you've got to stop acting like I'm fixing to man-rape you. I told you, I don't do that kind of thing. Now, I can give you an empty bottle, but I know that can't be easy to use in the dark, with your hands tied, so if you have any business to take care of, get up and do it now." He got slowly, painfully to his feet, ignoring the hand she still held out to him. "Good boy," she said, fighting the urge to pat him on the head.

Glare.

She grinned.

"Just keep your head in sight."


	10. Irrational Anger

He walked away, a tad unsteady on the frozen ground, shaking his hands to restore the circulation. She made sure to keep him in sight as she searched for her extra rope and handcuffs. There should be enough to keep him properly restrained without making him too uncomfortable. Of course, her idea of what was too uncomfortable varied from moment to moment, but right now she was more concerned with his sanity than her security. He seemed genuinely shaken, poor thing.

(_Poor thing? Why are you feeling sorry for him? It's not like this is the worst he's ever dealt with. It's not like he hasn't done _much_ worse than this to other people. At least you're _trying_ not to break him._)

His head dropped below the level of the bushes, and she cursed softly to herself.

"Squishykins? Stand up." His head didn't reappear. "Damn—Scarecrow! Up!" She went crashing through the bushes after him.

_Don't lose him! Don't you dare let him get away!_

She expected him to run, but she managed to almost trip over him when she burst into the little clearing where she had last seen him. He was down on his hands and knees, being sick.

"Sorry," she whispered, and backed away, a million thoughts racing through her head.

Foremost of which was, "Uh-oh."

Maybe it was the pizza. She had a friend who literally could not eat pizza without being sick the next day (which had made for an interesting freshman year of college.) Maybe it was something else he had eaten. Had she even remembered to feed him before they left this morning? Oh, no! Maybe it was carsickness. Maybe it was stress. Maybe it was a stomach virus!

Damn it, she hadn't planned for this!

When she heard him starting to get up, she whirled around to face him, nerves wound tighter than an E string.

"Are you dying?" she demanded. He looked completely blank. "Because if you are, stop it!"

"Stop dying?"

"You're damn right I want you to stop dying!" She grabbed his arm and dragged him, unprotesting, back to the car. "I have plans, and they all involve you being able to sit up and talk!"

"What plans?" he asked in a frightened-sounding tone that only fed her irrational anger.

"You know I can't tell you that! It'll spoil the surprise, okay?" She practically threw him against the car and forced a bottle of water into his hand. "Drink! You'll feel better!" He chose this moment to be obedient, giving her a minute to relax. "Okay. What's wrong with you?" He looked up from the bottle of water.

"Nothing."

"Are you sure?"

"Nothing serious. It won't happen again."

"Okay, then." He was shivering. Time to go. "Back in the car, skinny." He gave her an affronted glare, but crawled into the trunk without any further prodding.

On either side of the trunk were rings where one could attach a net designed to hold groceries in place. Using the handcuffs, she hooked his ankle to one ring. Then she tied his hands together in front of him and secured the rope to the other ring, leaving him enough slack to reach the food and water she tucked into the corner. She covered him with the blanket. Then she stripped off her trench coat and gave him that as well.

"I have a heater," she explained. "You don't." He still looked confused, but she had nothing else to say.

She drove back to town for food, then found a secluded parking place to give him his. Chips and candy were fine, but nothing quite compared to a nice, hot sandwich sometimes.

She stopped once more, for dinner. This time, when she opened the trunk, she found him dozing, but he managed to wake up before she could go for the laughing hippo flashlight.

And the next time she stopped, although she didn't let him know it, they were there.


	11. He and His Roommate

Leaving the Scarecrow in the trunk for now, Al walked up the steps to her friend Hugh's apartment. He and his roommate answered the door together, and she smiled at them.

"Hey," Al said brightly. "Can you guys do me a little favor? Pretty, pretty please with a cherry on top?"

"We don't want your cherry," Hugh laughed.

"Well, I might," Caleb added. Al gave them both a very serious look.

"Seriously, you guys. I need you to keep a guy for me."

"A guy?"

"Yeah, he's in the trunk of my car."

"What have you been doing?" Hugh demanded. "You disappear for a week, don't tell anyone where you're going, miss out on all the holiday fun we had planned, and come back with some guy in your trunk! Is _this_ the new job you were talking about?"

"New job? I didn't know you had a job," said Caleb. Hugh shushed him.

"I can't really talk about it right now. I just need to keep him somewhere for a little while, _quietly_, and you two are the only ones I can trust for this."

"That important, huh?"

"Well…that, and I know you have a spare room. I mean, it's not like you're using yours."

"Actually, we have a guy of our own staying in Caleb's room," Hugh said. "But I think we can work something out."


	12. Long Soaks

Bathrooms. Always bathrooms. If he ever made it back to Gotham, he was never going to lie down in a bathtub again. Nothing but showers from now on, and those would be as quick as humanly possible.

That wouldn't be much of a sacrifice. He didn't often find himself taking long soaks in the tub. But it was a nice, dramatic statement to make, in lieu of any useful action.

Well, at least this one was clean. He sat down gingerly on the edge of the bathtub and took a look around.

They hadn't been given much time to prepare this place to hold him. The counter was bare, but there might be something left in the drawers that he could use. They had deliberately left blankets, soap and towels, so it was safe to assume that he would be here overnight, at least.

And then what?

He strained to listen in on their conversation, but all he could hear was an indistinct murmur.

Useless. He got up to rummage through the cabinet. Cologne. Band-Aids. Still useless. Of course it was stupid to think that they might leave him with a pair of scissors, or the ingredients for a simplified fear toxin, but surely there was _something_. He opened another drawer. Toothpaste. A dusty box of condoms. Wonderful. A…well, something. He wasn't quite sure what this was. Probably something he didn't want to touch with his bare hands, anyway. Vaseline. And...oh, Jesus. What was toothpaste doing in the sex drawer?

He was washing his hands—scrubbing, really—when the knock came at the door.

Knocking. How conscientious.

"We're coming in," came the voice of a young man, and he scowled, wishing that the door had a lock.

The door swung open, revealing two young men about the same age as Al. Unlike Al, though, he was able to read them instantly.

The tall, brown-haired one was the warm-hearted type. He would be easily manipulated by those pathetic "puppy dog eyes" that had given Al so much trouble. The pretty blond was intelligent and full of himself. His strength could be exploited as a weakness. And their relationship with each other could be exploited, as well. As could their relationship with Al, once he discovered exactly what that was.

"Hello," said the blond. "I'm Hugh, and this is Caleb." He waited for the Scarecrow to identify himself. He didn't. "And you are?"

"Jonathan Crane."

"What's she been doing to you?" Caleb asked.

_What? Oh._ He caught sight of himself in the mirror and realized that the bruises around his eyes, though fading quickly, were still painfully evident. He had sported black eyes so often, the injury was hardly worthy of note, but these two boys looked horrified.

Scratch that. Caleb looked horrified. Hugh looked disturbed, but not surprised.

So he turned the full power of the eyes on Caleb.

"It's nothing," he said in a small voice, with a shrug accompanied by a real wince of pain that he exaggerated only a little. Caleb took a step toward him before Hugh put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"So—Jonathan—do you need anything?" the blond asked. "Some aspirin? An ice pack? Or, are you hungry?"

He widened his eyes and said pathetically, "Could I have something to read?"

And he managed not to laugh or even smile until they were gone.


	13. Abduction and Security Measures

Author's note: Christmas Eve Gift, everybody! HA! You're now part of my family tradition. Maybe I should call my family...

* * *

They slipped some magazines under the door. None of them were anything he was even remotely interested in reading. Nor would he have expected either of the two of them to subscribe to _Ebony_. Odd.

Although…if they had a subscription, it would have to come in the mail, wouldn't it? He quickly checked the magazines for address labels. They had all been torn off, but one of the magazines still bore a partial label, with the name Iesha and part of an address, which he carefully filed away in his memory, not that "301 Hel" meant anything to him.

Then he sat by the door, listening to the sounds of their conversation. He couldn't make out the words, but the tones were clear enough. They were confused as to why their friend would abduct such a mild-mannered sort of person, and insist on such tight security measures when he was so obviously harmless.

Good. Their doubt would be the first step in his path to freedom. These boys were only too obviously unused to this sort of thing. No matter how much Al might trust them, he doubted they would ever make effective jailers.

But, because there were two of them, he would have to adjust his plans accordingly. He _might_ be able to take them both, if it came to fighting his way out, but in his somewhat depleted condition, he couldn't be sure of that. If he tried to fight free, and failed, he would lose whatever sympathy he had gained, and he couldn't afford to lose that. They would be far less receptive if they had any reason to believe that Al was in the right.

He closed the lid of the toilet and sat down with an angry sigh. How the _hell_ had this happened? He should never have let himself be put into this position. He had spent enough of his life in the role of helpless victim - a role he had never intended to take on again.

He should have been more alert. Those two idiots in the alley had been bad enough; being taken by the crazy little bitch was worse; but being held by these two obvious civilians? That was just painful.

The murmur of voices outside died away. He tried not to think about what they were doing now. Eavesdropping on certain things could be uncomfortable even for someone with his track record of murder and mayhem.

So he was a prude. He didn't want to be a part of anyone else's sexual activities, including the role of inadvertent observer. Unfortunately, there wasn't much else for him to focus on in this bathroom…

Well, maybe they would tire themselves out and fall asleep. Then he could just walk away.


	14. Better Weapons

For the record, they did not tire themselves out. The sounds of lovemaking were still going on when he fell asleep.

When he woke again, all was blessedly silent. He had no idea what time it was, or where they might be.

Damn, damn, damn. He should never have let himself fall asleep.

He scrambled up out of the bathtub, scrubbing the remnants of sleep from his eyes.

One of them had come in while he was asleep—and that was disturbing. He _never_ slept that soundly.

The only evidence of their passing was a plastic container left on the bathroom counter, with an empty coffee cup on top of it. His first thought was to break the cup and use one of the pieces as a knife, but even armed with a makeshift weapon, this was no guarantee that he could overcome them both, and they were sure to have better weapons out there than broken crockery.

He took a look inside the box and found a sandwich. Wheat bread (the kind that screamed "health nut") lettuce, tomato, cheese—real cheese, not pre-sliced, plastic-wrapped "cheez food."

So. Someone out there knew his way around a kitchen.

And he might be dealing with vegetarians, judging by the conspicuous lack of meat. (Sandwiches, after all, had been invented for easy meat consumption.)

He filled the cup with water from the tap, and ate. There was no point in letting it go to waste, after all, and after this much time it wasn't likely that they (that nebulous They) would suddenly decide to slip him drugs or poison that way. Oh, it was possible, but not likely.

And this particular sandwich turned out to be clean, sporting nothing more sinister than a bit of spicy mustard.

That done, he got up and spent the next few minutes pacing around the room. This bathroom was a place where he could quite easily go stir crazy…

_So figure a way out of it._

He stopped his restless pacing and put his ear to the door, listening for any sound of movement outside. He didn't hear anything, but that didn't mean they weren't there.

But that also didn't mean they were. And there was nothing to be gained by sitting still. And nothing to lose by collecting some information.

Stealthily, he turned the doorknob and cracked the door. The room beyond was dark. When no one came to investigate the opening door, he gave it another push, letting it swing out another inch or so.

And the bell that someone had wedged in at the top of the doorframe went crashing to the floor.

Clever trick.

Since there was no way to undo the damage, he took a quick look around the room (Hugh's, if he had heard right.) It was a fairly typical room for a young man, though windowless and cavelike—unmade bed, computer, some DVDs, a bookshelf overflowing onto the floor, open closet door revealing him to be a bit of a clotheshorse—

That was all he saw. Caleb appeared in the doorway as suddenly as if he had teleported there, looking determinedly affable.

"Hi! Do you need anything?"

"I was just…what time is it?" he asked, trying to look harmless. Caleb checked his watch.

"4:30. Are you hungry?"

"A little," he admitted. (Translation: starving.)

"Well, I'm not the whiz Hugh is in the kitchen, but I think I can put a sandwich together without burning the place to the ground. Do you want anything in particular?"

"Anything," he said shyly (finding meek and unthreatening a harder role to play than it had once been, now that he had become so used to being the Almighty God of Terror.) Grinning, Caleb disappeared into the kitchen, and the Scarecrow stepped hesitantly out into the bedroom. The room might be dark, but the living room/kitchen area was well-lit. He eyed the front door carefully.

It was probably locked, and he would have to run past Caleb to get to it…with the kitchen table in his way, it didn't seem worth trying for just yet.

"Where's Hugh?" he asked, taking a step past the bedroom door to test his boundaries.

"Um—you should probably just stay in there," Caleb said nervously. "I'll be there in a minute." He moved back into the bathroom. _No need to force a confrontation yet…_ "Hugh's giving someone a ride to a friend's house. He should be back soon."

Interesting. _And exactly how soon is "soon"?_

The young man reappeared a moment later with a sandwich on a plate.

"We have chips. Do you like sour cream and onion?"

"I…" Oh, hell. He was _tired_ of keeping everything a deep, dark secret, making himself inaccessible, and alienating everyone. "I love sour cream and onion." Caleb grinned and handed over the sandwich.

"Great, me too."

Well, that could have been worse, he reflected as the boy disappeared and quickly returned with a bag of chips. He had never actually told anyone about his addiction to the crispy little bites of joy, but…what harm could it possibly do?

He wouldn't be here much longer, after all.

It took him a moment to realize that Caleb was staring at him strangely.

"Did you know your pants are ripped?"

He looked down at himself, surprised that he hadn't realized it already. Yes, his clothes had taken some serious damage in the struggles with the crazy bitch. That wasn't too unusual; he had looked a bit ragged for most of his life. But these were looking as if they might disintegrate in the next wash.

"That's…a little embarrassing."

"Hey, no problem," Caleb said. "You look like you're about my size. I can fix you up."


	15. Clothes and a Haircut

Uther's norte: Mr. Magoo! A Christmas Carol! Aw...I want to go give the Squishykins a hug.

* * *

Hugh got home an hour or two later to find exactly the last thing he had expected.

_Exactly_ the last thing.

Caleb and the Scarecrow were in the bathroom together, having a relatively comfy chat.

And Jonathan was wearing Caleb's favorite shirt.

_What the hell?_

And had he gotten a haircut?

"What is this, Queer Eye for the Scary Guy?"

"We got bored waiting for you," Caleb said. The Scarecrow gave him a look that seemed to be silently pleading for help.

"Um…you know, I don't think she meant for us to have this much contact with him, Caleb."

"What? He needed new clothes."

"Yeah…well…let's go ahead and leave him alone now."


	16. Necessary Suggestions

Author's note: I'm kinda smashed. Fortunately, I have made it to a chunk of what I already wrote. Yays!

* * *

They left him alone, which was nice. He had already planted the necessary suggestions in Caleb's mind. That one wouldn't be thinking of him as any kind of threat anymore. And Hugh could be easily distracted by Caleb's attention

It worked out perfectly.

He gave them a few minutes to make it out onto the balcony, and then opened the bathroom door, neatly catching the bell they had wedged up there again. Not a sound betrayed him.

And then, what else did he do but walk out the front door to freedom.

Freedom at last. Glorious, glorious freedom.

Of course, he was lost, with absolutely no idea where he was or where he was going, and he was not exactly dressed for the weather, but he could worry about all that later. For now, freedom. Delicious freedom.

Freedom was cold.

After a few minutes, he paused in the doorway of a building to have a look around. He seemed to have stumbled onto a college campus. If he only knew which one, then his escape would go much more smoothly.

There were plenty of people around, but he couldn't exactly walk up to one of them and ask. They looked like an equal mix of students and visitors, most of them dressed in some combination of red and white, decorated with the letter A.

He had never heard of a Hawthorne University, but he couldn't for the moment think of any other reason why this many people would be wearing scarlet letters.

"Roll Tide," someone yelled. That was enough to remind him of a time best forgotten, and to tell him that he was somewhere in the state of Alabama. He had never been at all interested in sports, but even someone like him couldn't help _noticing_ the football mania that swept through his fellow students in high school.

"Roll Tide," he said to someone who had been staring at him for a little too long. The man responded in kind and moved off.

Interesting. Well, not very interesting, really. He looked around, scoping out the clothing vendors lined up on the sidewalk. Most of them were selling t-shirts, but the one on the end had jackets, which looked warm enough to keep out this kind of cold and would go a long way toward taking attention away from him. He seemed to be the only one stupid enough to go out without a coat tonight. (_He_ knew it was desperation that had driven him outside, but it would only look like stupidity to the rest of them.)

So. First he would need money. He wasn't an exceptionally good pickpocket, but neither was he a man who would neglect to learn any skill that might come in handy someday. Not one but three men who brushed past him on the sidewalk had their pockets lightened considerably as their wallets disappeared into his. They deserved to be robbed, after bumping into him with the kind of force that only drunks and assholes could muster without noticing.

Fortunately, there were plenty of other things that drunks and assholes tended not to notice, and that included inexpert fingers in their pockets. Between the three of them, he came up with more than enough cash to buy one of the heavy red and grey jackets. They didn't have one that would actually fit him, of course, but he made do. Better too big than too small, and at least it was warm.

With his head down (both to hide his face and to shield him from the worst of the wind) and his hands shoved deep into his pockets, he drifted along with the crowd, drawing no more attention than any of the true football fans, and far less than the ones who were so inebriated they had forgotten the meaning of the word "moderation."

From what he could tell, the home team had lost, so his lack of enthusiasm wouldn't seem too out of place. Although, if this crowd had come from a losing game acting this way, he would hate to have been there if their team had won.

They all seemed to be coming from the stadium, and most of them were heading for a nearby parking lot. He thought about stealing a car, and immediately rejected the idea. There were far to many witnesses to risk taking a hostage, and he wasn't feeling suicidal enough to try driving himself, not without his glasses. He could barely read the nearest street sign, and he was close enough to reach out and touch it. He could always stow away in someone's trunk, but he didn't like the idea of leaving himself helpless in the hands of fate.

So, no cars for now. That was all right; he didn't want to give up and go home just yet. The bitch was going to pay for the indignities she had heaped upon him, and so was whoever had hired her.

The important thing right now was not to panic. He needed to find a safe place to rest and gather his resources, which were frighteningly scant in this unfamiliar place. He broke away from the crowd, walking like a man who knew where he was going. Let no kind soul stop to try to give him directions; he didn't want to be remembered.


	17. Tall and Distinctive Looking

Author's note: Surprised I can type my own face

* * *

"You _lost_ him? How could you lose him? What were you _doing_?" They exchanged sheepish grins that could only mean one thing. "Never mind. I don't want to know. But _why_?" 

"We went out to look at the stars," Caleb said with a shrug. "It got cold."

"You guys are disgusting," said Al.

"The only abnormal sexual practice is to have none," Hugh retorted.

"So you overcompensate by having it at every opportunity? Yeah, that's healthy."

"It's good stress relief." Al rolled her eyes.

"Look, you know that where I come from, there are lots of very happy _cows_. I'm just glad you're satisfied with human beings; if you two make each other happy, I'm the last person who's going to stand in your way. But I asked you to do _one_ thing, and you can't even imagine how important this was. I mean, don't you realize who he _is_? If we don't track him down, we're all in for a fate worse than death!"

"Don't worry, we'll help you find him. He can't have gotten far."

--

Because their apartment was so close to campus, and there was nothing in any other direction to compete with the sounds of the game for his attention, they decided to check there first. Al went to the chemistry building, which, as a biology major, she knew better than either of her friends. (The prospect of actually finding him there obviously frightened her for some reason she wouldn't explain, but she refused to let either of them face whatever consequences she feared.)

Hugh went to the library. There were several libraries scattered around campus for the different schools, but Gorgas was _the_ library, the center of campus (set right on the quad), the biggest, the most ostentatious, the only one that seemed to scream, "I am a library!" (McLure, on the other hand, looked like nothing more than a very large cardboard box.) Perhaps most importantly, Hugh had the key to the side door…for reasons best left unsaid.

Caleb was scouting the stadium, in case he had chosen to hide himself in the crowd.

The fans were still pouring out of the stadium. It wouldn't be hard for one man to lose himself among them, even a man as tall and distinctive-looking as Jonathan Crane. Standing back from the mass of humanity, Caleb let his eyes sweep over the crowd, searching for anyone who stood taller than he did. There weren't many (he wasn't exactly short) but there were enough. In a crowd this size, there were even a few who stood taller than the Scarecrow. And he would be smart enough to slouch, of course, so passive searching wasn't going to do it.

Well, if he were the Scarecrow, where would he go? Masked criminals tended to stick to cities like Gotham the way stage actors flocked to New York. They all seemed to think there were no opportunities for them this far south. As such, even the news of their exploits came down in abbreviated form. Only someone like Al, who had made a conscious study of the Scarecrow and his kind, could really know anything about him. The only Gotham villain Caleb knew about was the Joker, and Al had insisted pretty vehemently that they were _not_ the same, and he had better damn well stop thinking that way.

All right, so stop trying to think of him that way. He wasn't just the Scarecrow; he was Jonathan Crane, human being. What would a _person_ do in this situation?

He had to be cold. Caleb was, and he had a coat on. If he had any money, he probably would have bought something from one of the booths that sprang up in time for every game. He scanned the line of vendors.

There was only one that sold anything more substantial than t-shirts and hats. A baseball cap might be somewhat useful for a disguise, but it wasn't going to do much to keep him warm, and those cheap little t-shirts were beyond useless.

Caleb made his way through the crowd to the stall at the end of the line, sizing up the merchandise and the dealer carefully. The man greeted him cheerfully; he didn't seem to be doing as much business as some of the other vendors.

"Hey," Caleb said. "I'm looking for my father. You haven't seen him around here, have you?" The older man looked disappointed that he wasn't going to be making a sale, but he remained relatively friendly.

"What's he look like, son?" Caleb grinned inwardly; he had that kind of face that made everyone think of him as a trustworthy young man.

"He's tall with brown hair…" He thought quickly for an excuse for the bruises on his face. "He was in a car accident not long ago; nothing serious, but his face is pretty banged up."

"Yeah, I saw a guy like that. Real quiet, walking around out here without a coat, until he bought one of mine."

"That's Dad, all right," Caleb said with a rueful grin. The other man responded with evident sympathy. "He'd leave his own head behind if he could. I hope I can track him down…"

"He was headed toward visitors' parking, last I saw." Caleb grinned, trying not to look too concerned.

"Thanks."

He crossed the clogged and useless Bryant Drive, passing under the shadow of sorority row to University Boulevard. Visitors' parking. He might as well have said enemy territory. The LSU fans would all be gathered over on Campus Drive, and after the excitement of the game, they would be all riled up, and in no mood to treat a perceived Bama fan very nicely. If he was heading into that mess, he was going to be in a lot of trouble very shortly.

But there were a few landmarks he was going to have to pass before he got there. With any luck, he would get sidetracked.


	18. Little Monster

Things were much quieter when he crossed the street. A few people were still wandering around out here, and there were tents set up across a wide expanse of trees and grass. He paused in the shelter of an elegant-looking tower to scan the area.

The buildings all around were lit from the outside, but obviously empty. They would all be locked, of course. Even if there was nothing valuable inside, it would not be at all wise to let a crowd like this roam around unchecked. He shouldn't stay on campus, anyway. If Al were a student here, she would know the area better than he did, and he couldn't give her that advantage.

The sudden clanging of bells sent him diving into the nearest bushes, heart pounding in his chest.

Then he laughed.

The tower was ringing out the same tune he had heard every hour of his childhood that he had been in earshot of his great-grandmother's parlor.

It was a _clock_.

He counted the chimes. Only 7:00. He would have thought it was later than that.

With a furtive glance around to be sure no one had seen his graceful dive, he got to his feet and walked away from the tower. No one seemed to notice. The place was already close to deserted. Apparently, this town had nothing to offer other than its football.

He followed the sidewalk to the other side of the grassy knoll, where there was a building that suddenly screamed "library!" into his mind. (Even his weak eyes could read the massive sign, "AMELIA GAYLE GORGAS LIBRARY.") He found himself tempted quite strongly to go inside…in fact, only the presence of a young woman in an Army uniform keeping watch at a nearby roadblock stopped him. She didn't look like much of a threat, but she wouldn't be out here alone if she couldn't be trusted to do the job, and besides, even being seen was more of a risk than he was willing to take.

He would just have to find another—

Something hit him in the back of the head. He made a quick sidestep off the path, pressing his back flat against the nearest tree. There was no one nearby. At least, no one he could see…

Something else bounced off his head. He managed to catch this one.

An acorn?

He looked up into the tree branches. At the angles those things had hit him, they couldn't have just fallen.

Perched on the nearest branch was a fat gray squirrel with an acorn clutched between its paws.

He almost laughed.

_That's ridiculous. Squirrels don't throw nuts at people._

He was proven wrong a second later when the acorn bounced off his forehead.

What could he do but return fire?

His acorn went sailing over the little monster's head. It didn't even flinch.

If squirrels could laugh, this one would have.

He waved his hand at it.

"Go away!"

The squirrel hopped forward, staring curiously at his hand with its dead black eyes. He pulled away.

He was not interested in contracting any rodent diseases, and he did not want his Christmas present to himself to be more rabies shots.

The squirrel made another little hop toward him. He flapped his hand at it again, annoyed. A bird would have flown away by now.

"You're lucky you're not on the ground right now," he whispered to it. If he could have, he would have given it a swift kick that would send it flying clear across the street. The little road guard would never know what hit her.

With a smirk, he turned to go—

And froze.

Dozens of little black eyes glittered at him out of the darkness.

He was surrounded.

#

Anyone would have been startled to have a squirrel suddenly go flying past her head, claws skittering wildly on the empty air. The young cadet, all alone at the creepiest, most deserted guard post they had, was jumpy enough that far less than that would have been enough to startle a frightened squeak out of her.

She looked out at the quad to see a man running behind the library, trailing a mass of writhing gray behind him.

"Oh, great," she said, conversationally, to the dazed rat-thing at her feet. "The evil squirrels have got another one."


	19. Warm and Familiar Place

Author's note: You know, those squirrels freak me right the hell on out. I swear they follow me every time.

* * *

The library was a warm and familiar place, with the ground floor always bustling thanks to the computer lab and coffee shop, and the second and third floors quiet with the ponderous dignity of shelf after shelf of old books. The second floor could be noisy at times with the echoes of rustling pages and shuffling feet, the murmur of voices from the lecture hall, or the occasional overzealous crescendos from the music room. The third floor, on the other hand, was as quiet as a tomb and twice as peaceful; brightened by skylights and smelling of dust, the only sounds were the faint humming if fluorescent bulbs and the occasional intrusion from below.

That was how it felt in the daytime.

Hugh was not the type to be disturbed by shadowy feelings of unease. He was not afraid of the dark, and he did not believe the legends that the little round building just next door was haunted by the ghosts of Civil War soldiers (Union or Confederate, he couldn't remember which) who had been ambushed in the middle of a hunt for more whiskey. Even if he had believed in ghosts, he wouldn't have been intimidated by spirits that could be exorcised by a couple of glasses of rum and coke.

Then again, he had never been alone in the library at night, hunting a deranged killer whose greatest weapons were intellect and fear.

Getting in the side door with a key was the easiest way to get in after hours, but there were other options open for someone who was well and truly determined. The front entrance was in plain view of the ROTC road guard, and the magnificent back stairs were lit up like all glory, but there were windows around the sides that could be forced, especially on the second and third floors. It was possible to scale the library walls—not easy, but possible.

Hugh didn't honestly think that the Scarecrow would bother breaking into the library, but he deferred to Al's judgment in this. After all, she was the expert.

So he crept through the darkened coffee shop, relying on his night vision, although he did carry a flashlight, just in case. If his quarry really was here, he couldn't let him know yet that he wasn't alone. It would be better to start from the top, Hugh thought, and work his way down. He moved in absolute silence to the stairs in the back of the building, leaving behind the stale coffee smell for the more primal smells of dust and sweat. Every semester when exams came around, the terrified, unprepared students suddenly thronged the library, coming for the coffee, staying for the internet, and occasionally remembering that libraries also had those papery things with the words inside.

There was a reason why babies born in September and February were called exam babies. Sometimes people just had to work off their nervous energy.

And the smells they left behind were so strong, they could bend steel girders better than Superman.

Hugh enjoyed sex as much as the next person (if not more) but he was scholar enough that there were certain things he wouldn't do in a library. The library was for reading.

Then again, the kitchen was for eating, but that hadn't stopped them from doing it on the table. And on pretty much every other flat surface in their apartment.

With considerable effort, he dragged his attention back to the task at hand. This was no time to be getting sloppy.

He came out of the stairwell on the third floor, his own safe haven whenever he needed a quiet place to study. No one ever came to the third floor to stay. Even he didn't really belong there; the philosophy section was on the second floor, with everything else. But it was too hard to study there; far too many distractions. Whenever he saw anyone he knew, he was apt to start chatting, and with all the friends he had on campus, he would never get any work done.

The third floor, though was always peacefully quiet.

During the day.

At night…well, there was _nothing_ there, and he just had to keep reminding himself of that.

And if there was something there, it would only be some psychopath in a mask who liked to run around scaring people to death.

Nothing he couldn't handle.

Yeah.

He slipped through the big, empty rooms of the third floor, quiet as a mouse. A highly attractive, golden-blond mouse, with great shoes, no less. _And let's add charming and intelligent to the mix, as well as keenly observant._

He shut each door firmly behind him as he checked the rooms. That might not do much to keep the Scarecrow out, but at least Hugh could hope to hear if a door opened, and it would serve to remind him which rooms he had already checked.

He finished with the third floor, and was about to move down to the second when his cell phone rang. He had it silenced, of course, but he could feel it vibrating in his back pocket. He didn't even have to check the caller ID to know that it was Caleb.

"Hello," he answered in a whisper.

"Hey. He's definitely headed your way." (Some drunken idiots yelled out a "Roll Tide" in the background.) "I'll be there in a minute."

"Great," said Hugh. "The side door's unlocked. Be careful."

"You, too."


	20. Football Fans

Author's note: My pen a splode. And the ink just won't come off. All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Not to mention my clothes, my paper, my bed, my _other_ pens, my carpet, my book...my god, this is worse than when my cat exploded.

I loved that pen...

* * *

Finally, he had lost the crazy freaks. There was no way squirrels should be that ferocious without some kind of genetic engineering.

Now, if he ever made it back to Gotham and found that one of the other villains had trained an army of hyper-intelligent rodents…

No, better not think about that.

It was enough that they seemed unwilling to follow him across the street. Once again out of sight of any living thing, he walked down another street, with a crumbling school building on one side, and what appeared to be a cathedral and a medieval castle on the other. Such pretentious architecture; it was worse than Gotham University, which was at least consistent.

He took a right on (he squinted at the sign) Campus Drive. Oh, wonderful. Yet another reminder of the nature of his surroundings.

College was not exactly something for which he felt much nostalgia.

But Campus Drive was sure to lead him somewhere more useful.

Or so he hoped.

(Hope springs eternal.)

He followed the road past more empty buildings and a few parking lots, some crammed full of cars, others aggressively blocked off by wooden barricades and yellow tape.

And then he came upon the one thing it had never occurred to him to worry about.

More football fans. Specifically, fans of the _other_ team. Hundreds of them, all decorated in garish purple and gold, just as drunk and excited as the other group, but running off the extra energy of a win.

And his jacket marked him as the enemy.

Not good. He should definitely avoid them if he could.

"Hey!" someone yelled. Suddenly, the entire group seemed to go almost silent as he felt hundreds of pairs of eyes turn on him.

And then an angry buzzing rose from the mob.

_Oh, great. What did I do to deserve this?_

Well…

_Don't answer that._

"Hey, Bama!" someone yelled. The rest of the crowd took up the chant.

"Hey, Bama! We just beat the hell outta you! Rammer jammer, yellow hammer, go to hell, Alabama!"

It might be a bit of an understatement to say that he sensed hostility in this crowd.

So, almost before the first person broke away from the main group to run after him, he was gone.

* * *

Another author's note: Yeah, there's a reason why I made the other team LSU. Their fans are _vicious!_ Last time I went there, we got flipped off by the cops, and some guy urinated on one of our buses.

And we were just the damn band!

Oh, and for the record, yelling Rammer Jammer at a real Alabama fan is a good way to get your face beaten in. Outnumbered or not. Give 'em hell, Alabama. Yeah.


	21. Elena and K Crow

He ducked into a shadowy alcove offered by some nearby apartment buildings. His pursuers ran past, babbling incoherently.

Well, that was one danger neatly avoided. He wouldn't be going that way again.

So, now what?

There was a folded piece of paper taped to the door of the nearest apartment. He almost missed the name written on it as he turned away; then something made him turn back. He leaned closer to read it.

K. Crow.

It had to be a sign.

He knocked on the door, with the vague plan of asking to borrow a phone. There was no one in Gotham he would have actually liked to call for help; no one currently owed him any favors, he didn't have what he would have needed to buy a rescue, and he didn't want to go into debt if he could avoid it. Using the phone was just a pretext to gain entrance to the apartment, his potential hiding place.

But the ruse turned out to be unnecessary. The girl who answered the door (K. Crow, he had to assume) was as drunk as anyone else he had seen that night, so tipsy she could barely stand up.

"Pizza's here," she said, ignoring the fact that his hands were empty. "Elena, get the money." The one called Elena, who was sprawled across a chair, looked hardly capable of moving.

It wouldn't be very nice of him to take advantage of them like this.

Then again, he had days' worth of frustration to take out on something, and they were all but begging him to make them the targets of his poorly aimed wrath.

So he invited himself inside.

#

Being road guard at the post in front of the library was the most boring job imaginable. Oh, sure, there were the squirrels, and the occasional odd noise from the Little Round House, but there was no actual work for a road guard to do. People just didn't come that way. (Except for the two fans who offered her a bribe every week, without fail, to let them drive their truck across the quad.)

Well, long, slow nights like this one were why the cadet on duty always brought a radio. Not too long after the squirrel incident, she got bored and turned it on.

A few minutes later, a young man walking past stopped dead in his tracks, shocked by the news report she was listening to.

Soon, a blond man came out from behind the library to join them.

(For the first time in recent memory, the Carrie White of roadblocks was becoming popular…oh, dear.)

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Something happened at one of the on-campus apartments."

"What happened?"

"Well, I can tell you this much…Bryce Lawn is no more."

* * *

Author's note: When Jeff orders me to assassinate someone, how can I say no? The target has been silenced. I will expect payment in the usual way.

Merry Christmas, Jeffers!

-3.0


	22. Drunken Twits

Well, it had been a very interesting diversion, he thought as he walked away from the towering inferno that had been K. Crow's apartment. But it had done nothing to move him closer to his immediate goals. And the two innocent, drunken twits were a very poor substitute for the one he would have liked to convince to set herself on fire.

Well, now where should he go? The street was nearly deserted, but it wouldn't be for long, not with that conflagration behind him. Back the way he had come were the visitors from the other college; he wasn't about to go back to them. The other direction would take him back to campus, and so, he suspected, would the road that threaded through the apartment buildings behind him. That left only one direction he would have trusted, and that was blocked by a tall chain link fence running alongside the road. He didn't think he could climb it, but he seemed to remember a gate a little way back…and, around it, a feeling that he knew only too well.

What could it hurt to explore?

#

Al was getting pretty fed up with the empty chemistry labs when her cell phone went off, vibrating loudly in her pocket. She jumped about a foot in the air, cursing vividly. It was a good thing he wasn't anywhere nearby, because if he had heard her, she would have lost him forever.

"Hello," she said into the phone, after checking the caller ID.

"Hey," Hugh said. "Bryce Lawn is on fire."

"Huh?"

"Bryce Lawn Apartments. He was headed in the general direction, and now they're burning to the ground. Do you think he did it?"

"No question," she said. "Shit. _Shit._"

"What?"

"I know where he's going."

And she _really_ didn't want to follow him.


	23. Seances and Cheap Thrills

It wasn't home, but it was very much like it. This place was industrial where Arkham was gothic, but it had the same eerie stillness, a silence that was almost a tangible force, pressing in on all sides. At Arkham, by now that silence would have been punctuated by a bloodcurdling scream. Here, there was only the stillness and the taint of madness and death.

He let his fingers trail over the words carved into the old stone gate, now worn down to nothing by years of wind and rain.

BRYCE HOSPITAL.

It sounded so innocuous, just like Arkham Hospital (as it had once been called, although it had been Arkham Asylum all the time he had known it.)

And, just like Arkham, this long-abandoned place still retained its aura of what could only be described as Fear.

He knew it well.

And, since he knew nothing else in this town with as much certainty as he knew places like this…well, he might as well go inside. It was abandoned, after all.

Once inside, the feeling of heavy silence intensified, until it felt like walking draped in a wet wool blanket.

Perfect. This was exactly what Arkham would grow into, if it were left abandoned for a decade or two.

This was fear made tangible.

This was home.

#

Al met the boys at the front gates of Old Bryce. It was strictly forbidden for anyone to actually go inside, but the cops only ever checked the place around Halloween, when kids liked to sneak in for séances and cheap thrills. The rest of the year, only crazies, ghost hunters, and wannabe Goths went in there. And even ghost hunters tended to stick to the on-campus hot spots, and the dark-and-broodies went to the cemetery over by the stadium. One had to be devoted or desperate to pass through those gates. Even the hobos didn't sleep there.

Al had never been inside. Neither had Hugh and Caleb, but they had different reasons for staying away.

They all had basically the same reason for hesitating now. Different rationales, but the same basic fear.

That, Al thought, was how Bryce protected itself against intruders. And how it had attracted the Scarecrow.

Which was why they _had_ to go in, no matter how much they didn't want to.

"You can't tell me you're afraid of ghosts," Hugh said in that annoyingly superior tone he always got when he slipped into Philosophy Lecture Mode. Al was about to point out that she didn't see _him_ taking the initiative, but Caleb interrupted.

"Look, just because there's no definitive proof that ghosts do exist doesn't mean you have proof that they _don't_."

"Okay, so it _could_ be haunted, but I don't believe in ghosts. And even if they do exist, what are they going to do, rattle their chains at us and say 'boo'?"

"This isn't a cartoon, Hugh, and we aren't dealing with Casper," Al snapped.

"Okay, we all know _you_ believe," he said in a tone that made her want to stab him.

"It doesn't matter if I believe in ghosts or not! There has been documented paranormal activity here. There is something there, no matter what you want to call it. This place is not right."

"Well, I don't believe in ghosts or demons or anything else."

"Then maybe you should try going inside," Caleb suggested. They all took a few steps forward, and stopped just outside the gates. A car drove by, sounding oddly distant even though they should have been able to greet the driver without shouting.

"It's not haunted," Hugh said, just to hear the sound of his own voice.

"Places can be haunted," Al countered. "I've seen my fair share of them."

"I know, I've heard the story."

"I haven't," said Caleb. "What story?" Al just shook her head.

"Childhood memories are subjective. You can't count what was probably just a dream as real evidence," Hugh insisted.

"A dream? There were holes in my blanket!"

"Just because there were holes doesn't mean a monster's claws put them there."

"I saw it!" Their voices were raised now; if the Scarecrow was anywhere nearby, he was going to have plenty of warning that they were there, but they didn't seem to care. "And at that hotel in New Orleans, I wasn't the only one who heard the voices, and I wasn't a child then."

"People talk. Old buildings have weird acoustics."

"Human voices don't sound like that!"

"Hey," Caleb yelled. They both fell silent, staring at him as he took a single step forward, inside the gates. "See? I'm inside and I'm still alive. Maybe you two would like to stop babbling about things you don't want to explain, and join me."

Sheepishly, Al and Hugh walked together through the gate. Well, that wasn't so hard.

Al's cell phone rang, startling them all.

"Why didn't you put that thing on silent?" Hugh demanded as the concrete walls around them threw back eerie echoes of the Log song. ("It's Log, Log, it's big, it's heavy, it's wood! It's Log, Log, better than bad, it's good!")

"I did. This stupid thing always changes modes when I'm not looking." She dug her phone out of her pocket, saw who was calling, and frowned. "Very funny, Hugh."

"What?"

"Ha, ha." Al ended the call, noticing as she did so that the color of her screen had changed from purple to blue. Weird. That only happened when she dropped it. It would be just her luck if the stupid thing decided to drop dead tonight. "As much as I hate to say this, we should probably split up to search the place."

Hugh's cell phone rang. They all jumped again, and Al cursed, knowing that the loud and staticky rendition of "No One Mourns the Wicked" would carry clear across the hospital, announcing their presence like nothing else could.

After the ringing cut off, Hugh glared at Al.

"Was that supposed to scare me?"

"What are you talking about?"

He showed her the caller ID, which was flashing her real name.

"I didn't call you, Hugh."

"Yeah, right."

"I was busy putting it back on silent! And, do you really think this is the time to be playing stupid practical jokes?"

Expecting the worst, Caleb took out his own cell phone just before it went off. A split second of "The Knights of the Round Table" rang out before he could press the button to end it.

"Hugh," he said simply.

"I didn't."

"I know."

"Maybe we should answer next time," Al suggested. On cue, all three cell phones started to ring at top volume, including her own, which she _knew_ should have been in silent mode. "Don't answer it!"

They compared caller IDs, and were quick to come to a single conclusion.

"They must be having computer problems at the phone company," Hugh said. Al gaped at him.

Okay, so maybe they hadn't reached the same conclusion, after all.

"Hugh, we don't even have the same—dammit!" she yelped as her cell phone went off again. Caleb cleared his throat.

"Whatever's doing that," he said clearly, "it isn't funny, and it isn't scary. It's just annoying."

They waited.

Nothing but heavy silence.

"Well, I'm glad they fixed their _computer problems_," Hugh said firmly. "But we should probably turn our phones off, just in case. Now, you go left, you go right, and I'll stay here and guard the exit."

"Why do you get to guard the exit?" Al demanded.

"Because I'm not going to panic and run away."

Well, he did have a point, she thought as she walked away. She turned off her cell phone, wondering why she kept such a smarmy bastard as her friend.

_Probably _because_ he's such a smarmy bastard,_ she thought fondly.

_And if this phone goes off again, I'm getting the hell out of here.  
_

_#  
_

"There is nothing to be afraid of," Caleb whispered to himself as he stalked his prey through the old hospital. Honestly, he didn't feel like much of a hunter. He clutched his dead (uh…turned-off) cell phone in his right hand, mentally daring anything to attack him and risk the wrath of…well, the wrath of Vonage. Almighty…phone service provider.

_How did I get into this?_ he wondered.

He didn't have time to find an answer to that. He had barely worked himself into a state of fear when he heard the bloodcurdling scream.


	24. Creepy Things

Al was not faring at all well alone in this old, abandoned, supposedly haunted mental hospital. That was really not much of a surprise; creepy things always seemed to follow her, and not because they wanted to make friends.

And the feeling of being watched was not making this any easier. She could feel _eyes_ following her from the moment she and Caleb parted ways. She felt eyes on her back, unblinking, unfriendly eyes, but she knew if she turned and looked, there would be nothing there.

(And if there was something there, she just plain didn't want to see it.)

It was probably best for her own sanity that the feeling didn't last long. Not thirty seconds after leaving Caleb, she turned a corner and ran straight into a moving, living body.

She fell, letting out the kind of scream she would never admit could escape her throat. Then she looked up and saw that the thing she had collided with was the Scarecrow, who looked every bit as startled as she felt.

She screamed again, totally forgetting to be embarrassed that she was acting like a girl.

Was she screaming because she was lying helpless at the feet of the Master of Fear, on what could legitimately be considered his home ground?

No.

She was screaming at the big black shape that rose up behind him.


	25. Headaches and Bad Moods

Correctly assuming that Al wouldn't scream like that without a good reason, Caleb raced to the rescue. He turned a corner and saw her lying on the ground with the Scarecrow standing over her, all menacingly.

He didn't stop to think, just swung his cell phone at the Scarecrow's head like a very small club. He went sprawling.

(Bow before the might of Vonage!)

"Are you okay?" he asked Al.

"Caleb!" For a moment, she looked relieved to see him. Then her eyes widened in horror. "Cheesybits! You killed him!"

"Well, I killed my cell phone," he said, letting the broken bits of plastic fall to the ground. "But I don't think…" Just then, Hugh came pounding up behind him.

"What happened? Are you okay? Holy crap, you killed him!"

"I didn't kill him," Caleb insisted. "He's still breathing, you know."

Al grabbed Crane by the ankle and started dragging him toward the door, not noticing or not caring that she was pulling him facefirst over a pile of debris from a collapsing ceiling and a smashed window. The guys stared at her.

"What?" she snapped. "He's heavy. This would go a lot faster if you _helped_ me."

"What's your hurry? We found him. Emergency over."

"You didn't see it?"

"See...what?" asked Hugh.

"There was a...you know what, never mind. Let's just get the hell out of here."

The wind suddenly picked up outside, whistling eerily through the broken window. It didn't take much more than that to persuade Caleb and Hugh to get a move on.

#

He woke to a pounding headache and a serious bad mood.

"Briefs," said a voice from somewhere above him.

"No, boxers. With little skulls on them."

"Shh—he's coming around."

He cracked one eye open, trying not to move anything else.

The bathroom again. Of course, why not? He was lying on the floor, with the light shining directly in his eyes and Al, Larry, and Shemp all looking down at him.

"Hey, Squishykins. How's your head?" Al asked.

"Don't…don't call me Squishykins." She grinned.

"He's all right. Get him, boys." Hugh and Caleb grabbed his arms, pinning him to the ground. "Sorry, squish face, but I'm afraid I don't have time to be polite."

"What are you doing?" he asked as her hands went to the waistband of his pants. "Stop it!" He thrashed, trying to kick her away. She hung on grimly.

"Don't rip my new jeans," Caleb said anxiously.

"I'll buy you another pair!" She held him down long enough to get the pants unbuttoned.

"No!" He managed to kick her in the stomach. She doubled over, and Hugh's grip tightened on his arm as he slipped into the unexpected role of brotherly protector.

"Watch it."

"No—I'm okay," Al said, wheezing a little. She caught his left foot, before he could kick her in the face, and held it still. "Stop—fighting—me!"

"No!" His right foot hit her hip. They had taken his shoes, but he had to be able to do some kind of damage.

It didn't seem to faze her. She clambered over his flailing legs, plopping herself down on his stomach and driving the air out of him in a rush.

"Stop fighting me," she repeated. He went still—suddenly, being able to breathe seemed a lot more important than fighting her off.

She leaned over, the better to glare at him, so he head-butted her. With her two friends holding him down, he couldn't put much force behind it…but it made his point.

It also made his headache that much worse.

And she was undisturbed. She turned around, squashing him painfully with her knee, and calmly worked the pants down past his hips, using his own struggles against him as skillfully as any orderly.

"Briefs," said Hugh. "Pay up, Caleb."

_Bastards!_ the Scarecrow seethed. He bucked Al off, and twisted away when she tried to catch him and hold him still. He pushed up off the ground, arching his back in an attempt to break their grips on his arms. Caleb was holding him (relatively) loosely, as if he didn't want to hurt him. Hugh had no such compunctions.

His feet were jerked out from under him as Al grabbed the ends of the pants legs and pulled. The blue jeans went sliding off as he kicked wildly in the general direction of her knees.

"No! Damn it, _no_!"

"Bitch, bitch, bitch," Al taunted. She dropped the pants and grabbed his ankles, holding his legs still against her sides. "You want to do this kicking and screaming, chicken legs, that's fine, but let me remind you that you're in a _very_ vulnerable position here."

"What do you want?" he demanded, still doing his level best to kick her head off. She ignored the question.

"Caleb, will you take leg watch?"

"With pleasure."

If he thought this arrangement was going to make things any easier, he was dead wrong. Hugh pulled his hands together above his head and held them still by the simple expedient of dropping a knee on each wrist. Caleb did the same to his legs, while Al moved forward to kneel, straddling his chest.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" he yelped as she slowly undid the top button of his shirt. There was no way she could have missed the pure panic warring with anger in his voice, humiliating as it was.

"Oh, poor baby. It's so hard to be you." She continued to unbutton the shirt. "Hey, Squishykins, are you ticklish?"

"No!" he said desperately.

"Oh, that sounded like a yes to me." She finished with the last button and threw open his shirt. "Man, you've got to put some meat on your bones. I can count your ribs." She gently touched his side, walking her fingers up his ribs as she counted, "One…two…three…"

"Stop—stop it—no—please—" Tears sprang to his eyes as he smothered helpless giggles, unable to avoid her incessant _tickling_. "Just—leave me alone—"

"Are you going to behave?"

"No!" he said honestly.

"Okay." She went back to tickling him. In his struggle to squirm away, he managed to bang his head against the floor with a loud thud that brought a horrified expression to her face. Her hands went still, which was more of a relief than he ever would have admitted. "You okay? That sounded like it hurt." He didn't answer, just lay there, gasping for breath. "Seriously, Squishykins, is your brain going to fall out the back of your head, or what?"

"Leave…me…alone," he said. "And please stop calling me Squishykins!" She smiled.

"I could call you Betty. Would that be better?" He glared at her.

"_Why_?"

"It's easier to say than Ignatius."

"I hate to break this up," Hugh said, "but didn't you have somewhere you needed to be?"

"Oh, right. Enough fun and games." She moved away, and she and Hugh forced him into a sitting position. "Well, Betty," (he winced) "you and I are coming up on the end of our time together. Aren't you sad? I know I am. Now it's time for you to meet the one I brought you here to see."

"And I have to be naked for this?" he asked nervously.

"Naked? Oh, hell to the no! I want you in your Scarecrow costume." He glowered at her, rage flaring up inside him.

"And you couldn't just let me change clothes myself?" She shrugged.

"I was in a hurry."

"But you had time to poke me!"

"Oh, sweetums, there's always time for poking." She poked him once more, just to prove her point. "Okay, Hugh, let him go." Hugh released his wrists, pulling the shirt off as he stepped away. She smiled down at him, reveling at the sight of the Scarecrow sitting on the floor in his underwear, with a gay man holding onto his legs for dear life. "It's pretty cold in here, so I'm going to give you a choice—you can get dressed and act like a grownup, or you can fight me some more." She tossed his own threadbare brown shirt at him. "What's it going to be?"

He pulled the shirt down over his head. (Only because it was cold, he reminded himself firmly.)

Hugh took his arms again as soon as he had the shirt on, and he and Caleb dragged him to his feet, taking up positions on either side of him once he was standing.

"Pants," Al said, (with an odd giggle, but when was she not giggling about something odd?) as she held his out to him, waiting for him to step into them.

"I can put on my own pants," he snapped.

"Not right now, you can't. Now, obey the noble steed." Reluctantly, he stepped into the pants and let her pull them up, wishing he could kick her until he drew blood. "That's a good Squishykins. Now, where's that belt…"

"I don't need it," he said hastily, since he doubted she would let him do _that_ himself, and he didn't want to give the task to her.

"Suit yourself." She pulled his mask down over his face, and topped it with the hat. He glared at her with narrowed eyes, and this time she actually shuddered. "Did anyone ever tell you that you're scary as hell in that mask?"

"I've heard it a time or two," he said coldly. She laughed nervously and picked up one more item of clothing. His eyes widened. "No!"

"Oh, don't be such a baby. It's just a straitjacket." She held it out to him.

"No," he repeated, struggling against Hugh, who was trying to force his hand into the sleeve.

"You're worse than a toddler!" His feet slid out from under him, and all four of them went crashing to the floor.

"I'm not—you can't—make—me—" They got his arms inside the sleeves and managed to hold him down, in spite of his frantic thrashing, while Al fastened the straps.

"There, now," she said, patting him on the shoulder—and if he could have, he would have twisted around and bitten her hand off. "Let's get him in the trunk." She picked up his hat, which had, unsurprisingly, fallen off in the struggle. Caleb went for his feet, and since he had no other available weapons, he kicked. Al swatted him with the hat. "Stop that. The better you behave, the shorter this will be."

The two young men managed to pick him up and carry him outside, although he didn't make it easy for them.

"If you don't stop wiggling, you're going to get dropped," Hugh warned as Al opened the back of a dark blue SUV that could not have been more different from the car she had driven down from Gotham.

"Hey, hang on. Gotta blindfold him." She tied a strip of cloth over the eyeholes of the mask. The last thing he saw was her smirk.

They tossed him inside and left him, shivering and furious, while they said their goodbyes.

"Are you sure you can handle him by yourself?" Caleb asked.

"Yeah, no problem. He's not so bad." (_I'll show you bad. I'll have your guts for garters, little girl.)_ "I'll see you guys for New Year's."

"Have a good Christmas."

"Yeah, you, too. Take care of yourselves."

Then he heard her get in and start the engine, and they drove off to their final destination.


	26. Candy Cane

"We're here," Al whispered. He just curled up tighter, unwilling to move in the cold. "Oh, don't be like that." He felt her hands on his shoulders, trying to pull him out of the trunk.

"Why don't you leave me alone?"

"Oh…it hasn't been _that_ bad, has it?" She sounded sympathetic, but with the blindfold on, he couldn't tell if she was just being sarcastic again, or if she might actually be feeling some guilt. "Come on, Squish, help me out here. I just want to take you inside. It'll be nice and warm, and you know what? After tonight, you're never going to have to see me again."

_What exactly does that mean?_ he wondered.

But he couldn't very well stay out there in the cold, so he let her help him out of the trunk. When he was on his feet, she slipped an arm around his waist in what felt oddly like a hug.

"What are you doing?"

"Helping. Every time you try to walk, you end up falling on your face."

"Whose fault is that?" he snapped. She giggled and gently nudged him forward. "And _why_ do you keep giggling at me like that?" he asked as they trudged through what felt like snow.

"You're cute when you're angry. Step up." He stumbled as his foot came down on the concrete step; she steadied him carefully. "One more."

"You could take off the blindfold." She scoffed.

"Yeah, right. Like I'm really going to let you know exactly where I live. Besides, this will be more fun if it comes as a surprise. Hold still." She snatched off his hat and snugged another one down over the top of his mask.

"What was that?" She didn't answer. "What have you done?"

"Shush. It's time to lose the blindfold." He heard the sound of a door opening as she pulled the strip of cloth away from his eyes and called out, "I'm home!"

He blinked in surprise as they stepped into the living room.

It was warm—almost stifling, but delicious after the numbing cold outside. The room was dim, lit only by dozens of strings of twinkling white lights and a magnificent multicolored Christmas tree. The smells of fresh gingerbread and days' worth of other cooking drew a loud growl from his stomach, although it was mostly drowned out by the sound of Frank Sinatra singing "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing."

Standing in the doorway to the kitchen was another young woman in a Christmas sweater, her hair festively striped in red and green, a spatula in her hand, her mouth hanging open in shock as she stared at him.

Then she let out a bloodcurdling scream and ran. Not too unusual, that. But this one ran toward him, not away. And then…there was only one way to describe it. She glomped him so hard he staggered, and they both dropped to their knees on the hardwood floor. She squeezed him in the tightest hug he had ever experienced, and he forgot everything else and struggled to get away from her, thinking only of escape. And, damn it, he was _helpless_, he couldn't even _move_…

"Captain?" Al said calmly. "I think you scared him." The other woman (the captain?) pulled back, noticing the panic in his eyes.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said soothingly, putting both hands on his shoulders to steady him. "I didn't mean to startle you. It's just such an honor to meet…" She looked down at him. "OMG! He's sex in a straitjacket!" she squealed, and glomped him again.

"Om'g?" Al repeated, pronouncing it awkwardly.

"Om'g," the Captain agreed. Very reluctantly, she pulled away from him. "Sorry, Professor. Will you shut the door, Number One? It's bloody freezing." Her phrasing was decidedly odd in light of her lack of a British accent; there was a trace of the South in her pronunciation, even fainter than Al's. He glanced over his shoulder as she closed the door, catching a brief glimpse of the street, just enough to see that what he had thought was snow was nothing more than slush and dead grass. A lot of good that information would do him in an escape.

"Well," said Al. "Merry Christmas, Captain. Aren't you going to unwrap him?" The Captain's eyes widened and her mouth fell open.

"You mean he's _mine_? For _me_? You got me a _Squishykins_ for Christmas?" she squealed. He rocked back, wary of another glomping.

"Yup. Don't that just beat all? I mean, literally. Tell me this isn't the best Christmas present ever. Go ahead. Try to say it, and see if lightning doesn't strike you down."

"First of all, my sweet, this isn't a contest. Second of all, you haven't seen _your_ present yet." Then she turned around and glomped him, knocking him flat on his back.

"What's my present?" Al asked. The Captain giggled.

"Is…is everything all right in there?" came a new voice, male, hesitant, and quite familiar indeed. Al let out a very soft, very evil little giggle.

"Eddums," she said. The Scarecrow sat up to see none other than the Riddler standing in the doorway that led to the kitchen. "You got me an Eddums?"

"Is…she the one?" the Riddler asked. The Captain nodded. With an air of great ceremony, he nodded in greeting to Al and held something out to her.

It was just a candy cane with a jaunty red ribbon tied around it. There was no reason why it should have made Al throw back her head and cackle the way she did.

"I take it back," she told the Captain. "One of these years I'm going to beat you."

"Nope, not going to happen. You know we manage to tie every year. Why stop now?"

"Yeah, but…do you ever think this might be getting a little out of control?" She smiled down at the Scarecrow, who froze in the act of edging toward the door. "Someone wants out of his straitjacket. Explain it to him, Captain. Eddums, I'm going to jump you now." She let out a belated squeal and threw herself into his arms. And _he_ managed to remain standing.

"Wow…I can't believe I have the biffing Scarecrow sitting in my living room in a straitjacket and a Santa hat."

"Santa hat?" he blurted. The Captain frowned.

"She kidnapped you, didn't she? That's why you're so twitchy. Damn it, she knows better than that." She hugged him, gently, this time. "I'm really, really sorry. See, the thing is, we're both huge fans of your work. We've been reading up on you for years, and…you seem lonely, so…I guess this is Number One's weirdo way of inviting you over for Christmas dinner." Dinner? His stomach growled again, despite his best efforts to quiet it, and she hugged him tighter. "Doesn't anyone ever feed you?"

"Well, no," he said, hoping she would let go of him soon, before he started to panic again.

"Poor Squishykins." She snuggled with him. "I know you're hungry, so think about that before you run away, okay? All I want to do is feed you. Well, that and hug you for all you're worth while you can't get away." He felt her fumbling with the straps behind him. "You should be hugged, and often, and by someone who knows how. _But_ I want you to know that this is the last time either of us will touch you without your permission, okay?" She pulled away from him, taking the straitjacket with her. He stretched out his arms, tingling with the returning blood flow, and briefly considered his options.

One: he could run now and just hope they didn't catch him, ignoring the fact that it was near freezing outside, he was half blind without his glasses, and he had no real idea where he was. Two: he could bide his time and run later, when they weren't expecting it, always assuming a better opportunity ever actually came up. Three: he could stay and take his chances with the crazy bitches.

He looked up at Al, who was engaged in deep and animated conversation with the Riddler. He looked relaxed enough, and she could not have been more different from the picture of her that he had built up over the past few days. She looked so happy, eyes shining with excitement, a gentle smile lighting her face, hands fluttering as she talked. Those two were acting like old friends already.

As for the Captain, she was sitting perfectly still in front of him, looking as intent as if she were trying to approach a wild animal.

"Are you going to chirrup at me?" he asked tentatively. Her face split into a wide grin.

"Do you want me to?" Then she laughed. "You know, even with that mask on, I can tell when you're looking horrified! It's neat!" She got to her feet, holding out a hand to help him up. He accepted it with extreme reluctance. Fortunately, she didn't hold onto him any longer than was absolutely necessary to get him standing. Then she let him go, although she looked like she wanted to hold his hand and then some.

He made sure to take a step away from her, keeping a safe distance. And then he had nothing else to do but stand there, feeling incredibly awkward, while his inner pessimist insisted that he was wasting his only chance to get away.

"Dinner should be ready soon," the Captain said, shy now. "Would you like something to drink? We have eggnog, cider, chocolate milk, about fifty different kinds of tea, um, coffee…yeah. Maybe you should just come with me," she said, noticing the furtive glances he kept shooting at Al, who was now sucking the Riddler's candy cane and wearing his green bowler.

He followed the Captain into the kitchen, taking a path that kept him a nice, safe distance away from Al.

With a delighted smile, the Captain pressed a glass of eggnog into his hand.

"Thank you," he said awkwardly.

"You're welcome! And if there's anything else you need, don't be afraid to ask. I know you probably don't want to be here, so if you feel like you really have to leave, well, I'll understand."

_Oh, really?_

"Really," she said, interpreting his skepticism correctly. "You're not a prisoner, you're a guest. A very honored guest, Professor Crane. Is it all right to call you that?"

"Fine," he said shortly. _It is immensely preferable to Squishykins, anyway._ She smiled.

"And you can call me…" She thought carefully. "Might as well go with Nova. That's not my name…"

"But it's what I can call you," he finished. She flushed, hearing the anger in his voice.

"I'm sorry. I…do you want to leave? I can have some food packed up for you in no time, and…if you need a ride somewhere…or…"

Now he just stared at her, perplexed. Not only was she offering to let him leave—with food?—but she seemed…sorry to see him go. She couldn't actually want him to stay for dinner like some kind of normal person…could she?

That was just…strange.


	27. Captain and Her Hat

Meanwhile, in the living room…

"You know, I actually wanted to go after you," Al said. "As much as the Captain likes the Scarecrow, she's wanted to have the chance to stroke your ego for months now. So have I, of course, but you would have been the perfect Christmas present for her, but you were locked up in Arkham. I couldn't just waltz in there and ask to borrow you for a few days…so, how did she? I'm glad she got you out and all, but _how_?"

"Well, actually, we are allowed visitors. She came in posing as my sister." He giggled. "I don't have a sister, of course, but trust those idiots not to know that. She's very good at looking trustworthy, your friend. Not many people manage to get themselves let loose in Arkham without an escort." Al frowned.

"She's a green-haired maniac! How does _she_ manage to be the 'trustworthy' one?"

"She wore a hat," The Riddler said with a twinkle in his eye. Al grinned. He grinned back. The matching intensity of their absolutely manic expressions probably should have been disturbing, but Al was not bothered by it.

"So, what did the Captain and her hat do next?"

"She and her hat raided the storage lockers first. There are quite a few interesting items kept in there, you know."

"Oh. Is Arkham still standing?"

"Most of it."

"I'm so sorry I missed that," Al said with a giggle. Then she glomped him, very quickly. "Sorry. I don't normally approve of physical contact, but…it's you. You're the first man I've ever seen who could actually pull of the neon green spandex look."

"I'm…not wearing the tights today," the Riddler said. She laughed.

"Oh, I know. I've so been stalking you. And I have to say, as cool as the tights are, you look even better in the green jacket and bowler. It's even sort of Christmassy." He made exactly the face she had been hoping for, an adorable mix of pleasure and flustered embarrassment. She didn't hug him again, but she thought about it. "God, you're just so cute! I'm really glad the Captain invited you over." She paused. "Speaking of the Captain, they've been in there a while. Do you think we should check on them? You know, make sure they're not dead." With a shrug, Eddie followed her to the kitchen door.

Whatever sight she expected to see when she opened the door, it was not this.

The Captain was sitting on the kitchen counter, spreading icing over a chocolate cake.

The Scarecrow, maskless, was sitting at the kitchen table, licking the spoon.

The Captain was singing "Jingle Bells" to the spatula.

And the Scarecrow was _almost_ smiling.

Of course, he stiffened and dropped the spoon the moment he saw Al and the Riddler. The Captain stopped singing, suddenly embarrassed.

"Get out of here! You know you aren't allowed in the kitchen, Number One."

"All right, all right. Here, I thought I should give these back." She handed a slightly bent pair of spectacles to the Scarecrow, who took them without a word.

"Why aren't you allowed in the kitchen?" the Riddler asked. The Captain giggled.

"The fire department stopped taking our calls."

"Quiet, you!" She grabbed the Riddler's arm and dragged him out of the room.

The Captain and the Scarecrow shared a glance. Then, without acknowledging what had just happened, he brought the spoon back to his mouth.


	28. Cake Batter

The Scarecrow actually _was_ feeling almost at ease. He didn't want to be, but he was. This Captain Nova woman must have some kind of superhuman powers. She must. He would not be this close to relaxed and at home with a normal person. He _never_ voluntarily spent any amount of time with _anyone_ except for the people he was experimenting on, and they certainly didn't give him hugs and chocolate.

Not that he wanted hugs and chocolate. Well, chocolate, maybe. She did make good icing. But no hugs.

She kept smiling at him, too. That should have been creepy. In his experience, a smile from a woman usually presaged something unpleasant. But so far, she hadn't done anything worse than shower him with affection and food.

It was very strange.

Charming the Riddler was easy. Even Al (still "that crazy bitch" in his mind) seemed to have done it. But taming the Scarecrow? _He_ wouldn't have thought it possible.

And yet, here he was. Sitting in her kitchen. Drinking eggnog. Licking cake batter off a spoon. Making conversation. Not destroying her and everything she held dear.

Being polite despite his best efforts to remain aloof.

Good grief. Whatever she was doing to him, it was actually working. He was not as off guard as she probably thought he was, but he was far more relaxed than he knew he should be. He gave himself a mental shake and reminded himself that no one would go to Gotham City, kidnap an arch villain, and drag him halfway across the country just to wish him a merry Christmas.

"Don't be too hard on Al," she said. "Every mean thing she did to you was a sign of affection. Trust me, I know. She's like a sister to me, and I have the scars to prove it."

"Scars?" Now _that_ was interesting.

"Well, just a couple. It's not like she _tries_ to hurt people. She just has some kind of sixth sense, or at least that's what she always says. I remember the time they made me jump off the high dive—blindfolded, no less—and I panicked and let go of my rifle when I hit the water. I thought for sure I was going to knock myself unconscious and drown. I didn't, though, but I had a sore spot on my head for weeks, and I _still _have that pesky fear of falling, which makes it really hard to ride roller coasters, which sucks, because I've _never_ been afraid of that. Anyway, Al developed this weird compulsion to hit me in the head—she didn't even mean to—and it only stopped when I healed up. Usually, she just pokes me. Here's hoping I never break my ribs." She looked sick for a moment. He stared at her.

"The swim team goes armed?" he asked slowly.

"Army. Aquatic PT. Sorry, I don't mean to babble."

"Oh, is that why she calls you Captain?"

"No. But it is why Roger calls me Sarge."

"Ah..." _Roger? Sarge? _He had the feeling she was doing her level best to confuse him, whether because she was afraid of giving away too much or because she derived some pleasure from keeping him off balance.

He sipped his eggnog.

"Are you hungry?" she asked. "Everything's just about ready and, well, if Al doesn't make you stuff yourself, I will. So you might as well just give in."

"It would take a far braver man than I to fight you both," he said. She gave him a dazzling smile, and looked as if she wanted to hug him again. He raised his glass as a makeshift shield.

Fortunately, all she did was clink her glass against his.

"Here's to the holidays," she said, sounding a little choked up. Then she turned around and bellowed, "Al! Eddums! Get your asses in the dining room, _now_!"

No one in his right mind was going to argue with a summons like that. Of course, he didn't believe for a minute that anyone in that house fit the legal definition of sane, but that had never caused any problems before.

Well, not any insurmountable problems, anyway.

Well, no problems that had actually killed him yet.

They all gathered in the dining room, where a massive colonial-style table was laden with every kind of Christmas food he ever could have wanted. It was the kind of Christmas dinner he had secretly longed for as a child, but had never been able to afford. And once he'd finally had the means for a setup like this, well, he wouldn't have had anyone to share it with, so why bother? The closest he had ever come to a real Christmas celebration was the forced festivities at Arkham, and that had always been something to be endured, not enjoyed.

But this was…well, damned _nice_ was what it was. He had no happy memories of the holiday season. He had only ever been depressed and lonely when he was young, and indifferent when he got older.

But this…was…nice, in a way that he had no words to describe properly.

All the others looked as if this was exactly how things should be. "Eddums," who he had never seen looking anything but completely awkward or snidely condescending, depending on the company, was now giving off the vibes of a pampered housecat. The young Captain displayed both misty eyes and a radiant smile. And Al was looking as pleased as if she had invented Christmas herself.

That young woman wore smugness very well.

"I thought you were making a turducken," she said with a sniff that was not at all unappreciative. The Captain laughed.

"Are you kidding, Number One?" she asked, stumbling a bit as if she had been about to call her friend by another name. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to stuff birds inside each other? I would have pissed myself off and turned it into popcorn." That set them both giggling, although he had no idea what it meant. "Speaking of popcorn, will you light the candles?" Still giggling, Al retrieved a book of matches.

"The Captain's not allowed to play with fire anymore," she teased, probably getting back at her for that earlier crack about not being allowed in the kitchen. "Do you want to tell them why, or should I?" The Captain's face was a particularly vivid shade of red, but she looked determined to tell this story herself, perhaps not trusting the other to get the details right.

"I used to burn a lot of candles," she said. "One day, I...well, I found an old love letter, and I decided to feed it into the flame. It got a little out of hand, that's all."

"Tell it right," Al admonished.

"Okay, okay. So this massive pillar of flame shot up, and of course I totally panicked. I managed to put it out before anything else burst into flame, but not before the fire alarm went off—"

"—waking me out of a sound sleep."

"I _said_ I was sorry. So, anyway, there I was, trying frantically to turn off the alarm—because in the apartment we lived in then, we weren't actually allowed to burn candles. I got the one in my room turned off, but the one in the living room just _would not_ stop. And Al there didn't know whether she wanted to help me, hurt me, or just laugh her a—face off. We opened the door and all the windows, and turned on all the fans, and I even tried beating the thing with a towel, and nothing worked. This went on for hours."

"_Hours_," Al echoed. The Captain sighed.

"Aye. Right awful, it was." She seemed to slip easily into an imitation of a pirate, and slipped just as easily right back out of it, without ever having realized what she had done. "Finally, we gave up and decided to call the maintenance guys. By that time, our other roommate, Karli (the durff) had already come and gone. No chance _she_ was going to stick around to help us. But she did remind me that I was going to get a hefty fine for burning the forbidden candle." She coughed, embarrassed. "So Al helped me cover my tracks. I never would have thought of it; I haven't burned anything in the kitchen since I melted the toaster when I was eleven."

"Yeah, yeah, we're all impressed," Al said with both obvious sarcasm and a genuine smile.

"'We could burn Easy Mac,' she said. 'How do you burn Easy Mac?' I asked. 'Just forget to put water in it,' she said. Now, I may be scatterbrained _and _accident-prone—" (she wiggled her fingers, showing off a band-aid on each finger) "—and I did once try to microwave a one-pound Hershey's kiss without unwrapping it first. It was pretty! But I told her I would never be quite dumb enough to forget to put water in my Easy Mac…" She let the silence hang.

"Twice," Al said. "I've done it twice, okay?" By now, the Captain had dissolved into helpless giggles. "Yuck it up, fuzzy."

"Hey, I'm not fuzzy. My hair's grown out. _Anyway_, Al told me to find a bowl I didn't like much. She didn't tell me exactly _why_…" Al coughed and looked away. "So I put it in the microwave, and we hightailed it out of there. And then, what was it you said, Number One? 'This is going to smell just like burnt popcorn'? And I turned to her and said, 'Well, why don't we just burn the _popcorn_?'" Now they were both giggling manically. "So we both raced in there to try to stop the microwave before it exploded. And it _did _smell like burnt popcorn…but then, so did the popcorn we burned…and believe me, when I set out to burn something, I don't do it half-assed. So the maintenance guys came up and just unplugged the damn thing, showed us how to hook it back up again, and told us if it hadn't stopped by _Monday_, to call them again." Al cackled.

"And after they left, she gave me this _pitiful_ look, and said, all Han Solo-like, 'They didn't even ask me any questions!"

"So now, every time we set something on fire, we call it 'making popcorn,'" the Captain finished.

Privately, he wondered just how often they actually set things on fire. They spoke as if they were quite well acquainted with the joys of pyromania.

"Speaking of corn," Al said, "Captain, I can't believe you didn't know something was up when I asked you to make corn on the cob."

"Hey, I thought you were just trying to face your fears." She grinned at the Scarecrow. "She's afraid of corn." He blinked in surprise-_corn_?-as Al flushed.

"At least I'm not afraid of driving."

"At least I'm not afraid of using the phone," the Captain snapped back.

"Yes, you are!" Al said indignantly.

"Oh, shut up and eat your corn."

They bickered like a pair of sisters throughout the meal, treating each other, the Scarecrow realized, much the same way Al had treated him. More than once, one of them would reach over to poke the other for no apparent reason, and have her hand slapped away with a pointed glare and a creative insult. Neither of the two of them ever included either of their two dinner guests in the physical assaults, although they seemed to be fair game for verbal taunting. The Captain was a bit gentler than her first mate, as far as that went, but her quiet and easygoing exterior didn't necessarily match her interior. He suspected that she was more shy than sweet the first time he heard her tear into Al (with venom enough to do any Gotham villain proud.) His suspicions were confirmed when she said, in an offhand sort of way, "Al's always thinking of stuff to do to people, but I'm the only one who will actually go out and do it." Then she mumbled something about an umbrella, and giggled even as she seemed about to burst into tears.

"Waugh," said Al. "But I notice you haven't managed to do anything about That Bitch or That Whore."

"You want to see my Squidward band-aid?" the Captain said sweetly, referring to the line of band-aids across the fingers of her right hand, a different cartoon character on each finger. He didn't know what a Squidward was, but he could guess which finger she was referring to.

"Who are 'That Bitch' and 'That Whore'?" asked the Riddler. They looked at each other with pained expressions.

"That Bitch—" Al began.

"That Whore," the Captain said at the same time. They laughed. "That Whore is our former roommate, Karli Crow. She stole my ice cream."

"Oh?" That didn't explain why she suddenly looked so furious, or why she was stabbing her broccoli so savagely with her fork.

"Never touch a woman's ice cream when it's the only thing keeping her from murdering you! The holy sacred Moose Tracks _shall not be touched_! Whore!" She threw her broccoli at Al.

"Hey, what did I do?" The Captain giggled.

"The Meaty Avenger strikes without warning."

"That wasn't meat!"

The Scarecrow waited until he was sure there would be no more food thrown about.

"Did you say Karli Crow?"

The Captain grinned as she suddenly got it.

"Yeah! Maybe we should introduce you two."

"Is it Karli with a K?"

"Yeah…do you _know_ her?"

"We've met." Now both girls were staring at him, openmouthed.

"How did that go?" Al asked.

"I, uh…made popcorn out of her."

The last thing he expected was for the two of them to come over the table in their haste to tackle him. His chair rocked back and slowly tipped over, sending the three of them crashing to the floor. His head rebounded off the floor, a sensation he was all too familiar with (and if this was someone's idea of a joke, it had long since ceased to be amusing.)

For a moment, he panicked (again, damn it) wondering what he had done to anger them this time. Then, belatedly, he realized that his was not an attack; he was being hugged. Again.

That was getting old fast.

"You rock _so_ hard!" Al said, giving him a hearty squeeze. The Captain snuggled up to him in a way he had never expected to experience with any woman.

"Is she dead?" she asked, almost hopefully.

"P-probably…"

Hastily, the Captain pulled away from him.

"Oh, God. I promised we wouldn't do that again, didn't I?" The two of them helped him up. (Manhandled might have been a better word for it.) "Damn it, Al, we both know better than to startle him."

"Sorry, Squishykins. Would you like a cookie?" asked Al, moving an acceptable distance away from him. She glanced at the Captain. "You did make cookies, didn't you?"

"Of _course_ I made cookies! Do you want cookies? We could skip to dessert."

He tried not to flinch when they came near him. This love-and-fear routine was getting old, too. The next time anyone made any sudden movements, he was gone.

"Would you do that to _me_ if I killed one of your friends?" the Riddler asked hopefully. They both grinned.

"I'll do it to you for less reason than that," the Captain said. Al looked startled.

"Captain? Is there something we should know?"

"We had to wait for you, Al. You were late. We had to do _something_ to keep from being bored," she said with a shrug. Then she added in a stage whisper, "The man is a _god_." The Riddler's face went red, Al looked flabbergasted, and the Captain burst out laughing. "We played Lumines. Here I thought I was the Master of all Tetris games, but you should see him play." She smirked. "Pervert."

They disappeared into the kitchen, leaving the Riddler and the Scarecrow to stare at each other from across the table.

"So," the Riddler said awkwardly.

"So."

"Um…good pasta."

"Yes." He poked at what was left of his with his fork. "It…tastes like pesto."

"Oh, yes. Pesto." He cleared his throat. "That would explain the color."

"Yes."

The heavy silence dragged on. So much for small talk. He glanced at the door, considering the wisdom of just leaving.

"So, uh…how's business?" the Riddler asked.

"Oh, good, good—" He froze as the 'you've forgotten something important' thought that had been dancing around the back of his mind for the last few days suddenly burst into the forefront. "Oh."

"What?"

"I had an experiment going when she grabbed me." All ruined, now. And those test subjects were in no fit mental state to set themselves free. Unless Batman or the police had managed to trace them to his new laboratory, he was going to need some heavy-duty Pine-Sol and Febreeze when he got back. Damn. He hadn't intended to actually kill this batch.

Oh, well. With a shrug, he took another drink of eggnog.

And he wondered what Al would think if she knew about the experiment she had interrupted.


	29. Cookies and Sparkling Personalities

"You like him," Al accused.

"Who?" the Captain asked innocently.

"Eddums."

"Well, of course I like Eddums. After we played Lumines, I got out my old desktop, and we played good old classic Tetris. And halfway through the game, I did the Inigo Montoya thing and said—"

"You were playing him left-handed?"

"Of course. So was he. And he looked up at me and said, 'I think there's something you should know…I'm not left-handed, either.'" Al squeed. "But that's not all! After we switched hands…" Her voice dropped down to a whisper. "I _won_."

"No way!"

"Way!"

"Well…he is more of a word puzzles kind of guy, anyway…" The Captain glared at her.

"Shut up and let me have my victory! I beat the Riddler at a puzzle game! I have got to keep this guy around and play with him some more. Number One…"

"Don't you dare give me the puppy dog eyes!" Al said. "You're as bad as _him_. Yes, Captain, the Eddums is yours and the Squishykins is mine. I have the feeling that's the way it should have worked out, anyway."

"Yay! But, you know, if you want your Squishykins to be, you know, squishy, maybe you should apologize for whatever you did that scared the hell out of him."

"Hey, I was just trying not to be too nice to him, so you could do your thing. You're the one who's always beating up on them."

"I don't like hurting people," the Captain insisted. "I just like nursing them back to health."

"And in order to nurse them back to health, you have to hurt them first."

"Well, sometimes to make an omelette, you have to break a few…legs." Al gave her an exasperated look, and then started laughing.

"With a hammer?" The Captain blushed.

"You didn't hurt him, did you?" she asked anxiously.

"No! At least, not much, and not on purpose. And, believe me, he gave as good as he got."

"But, his face…"

"Okay, so I was a little rough getting him in the straitjacket. But the worst of that happened before I got there. I think you know I wouldn't have done that to him."

"Only because every time you come up with something really nasty, you wuss out and make me do it for you. And here I thought I was supposed to be the nice one."

"Captain," Al said, suddenly serious. The Captain smiled, and they both steeled themselves for the melodramatic outpouring of love and friendship that was, by necessity, a part of any good Christmas story.

"Seriously, Number One, he's the nicest present I ever could have asked for."

"I just don't think anyone should have to be alone for Christmas. Speaking of which, you could still come home with me…"

"No. As much as I love your family, and as much as they always make me feel welcome—"

"Welcome, hell! You're not welcome, you're family. You're an adopted strawberry, and there's no getting out of that."

"Look, you don't have to worry about me being lonely. How could I be, when I have you?" She smiled. "I know how lucky I am to have a friend—_family_ like you. And—hey, you know I lurve ya, right?"

"Uh-huh," Al said with a raised eyebrow at the sudden lightening of her captain's tone.

"Good, because I have a little confession to make." She let her voice drop down to a whisper. "Eddums wasn't really your present. I mean, he was, but he was really for both of us. I actually got you something else."

"Squidjums?" Al blurted.

"No, he's spending Christmas with his wife. You know that."

"Right. Well, then, what'dja get me?" she asked, doing a close enough imitation of Harley Quinn to make the Captain squeak with joy.

"It's outside. I'm going to get Eddums to help me with it. Meanwhile, you use those cookies and your sparkling personality on the Scarecrow. I want you two to be buddy-buddy when I get back."

"Deal." Al picked up the cookies, the Captain got her cake, and they went back into the dining room just in time to catch the tail end of their guests' conversation.

"Al and Nova?" the Riddler was saying. "She told me to call them Fukiko and Antoinette."

"Antoinette?" Al repeated. "Since when have you ever been an Antoinette?"

"It's my pen name. Tanya _was_ short for Tatyana, but I didn't want to pair a Russian first name with a French last name, so I figured Tanya could be a nickname for Antoinette."

"Why not just use a different last name?"

"Because I wanted to name myself after the captain in _Starship Troopers_—the movie, I mean—who gets cut in half by the door. Now, quit stalling me." She put down her cake and whispered something in the Riddler's ear. He got up and followed her out of the room.

The Scarecrow's eyes widened as he realized he was being left alone with her. Al moved closer to him. He inched away.

"Kyo fu nigami," she said solemnly, bowing to him. "Would you like a cookie?"

"No, thank you." His voice sounded so nervous, she had to smile.

"The Captain will never forgive me if I don't make you eat."

"Fine." He picked up a chocolate chip cookie and nibbled on the edge. Then his eyes widened in surprise. "Is that…peanut butter?"

"Yep, the Captain's famous peanut butter chocolate chip—oh, you're not allergic, are you?" she asked in horror.

He let the question hang for a few moments before he smiled and said, "No."

"Oh, good." She smiled back, even though she knew the intent of his was not friendly. "Squi—Scarecrow, sir, I'm sorry about kidnapping you, and I'm sorry I was all mean. But you wouldn't have come if I had just invited you, would you?"

"Not a chance," he agreed.

"And you didn't really have any better plans for Christmas, did you?"

He gave her an odd look before he answered, "Well…I've had worse holidays than this one."

"Oh, good. That means you forgive me, right?"

"Not remotely."

Her heart sank.

"Oh. Well, don't kill me yet, okay? Give me a little while to change your mind."

He gave her a shrug that she took as assent.

That was when her mischievous side came out to play.

"Hey, Squishykins," she said huskily. "Did you notice? We're under the mistletoe."

He was out of his chair and across the room in far less time than it would have taken her to pounce.

"Joking! I was joking! We don't even _have_ any mistletoe." She moved slowly toward him, holding her hands out in a gesture of peace. "I told you, I don't…do…things…" She trailed off as her gaze was drawn to the living room window, and the soft white flakes falling outside. "Hey, look, it's snowing," she whispered. "It's not cold enough…there's no way it should be snowing…but…it's snowing. _It's snowing_!" she shrieked. "It's snowing, it's snowing! Let's go play!"

She ran through the living room and threw open the front door, and was hit by a blast of frigid air.

"Snow!" she cheered. "It's a white Christmas!" Without stopping to put on a coat, she ran outside, vaulted off the front porch, skidded across the frozen sidewalk…and somehow managed not to fall on her face.

"Merry Christmas, Number One," the Captain called. Al turned around, slipping a bit on the ice.

At first, all she saw was the Riddler, bundled up to the ears, standing next to a ladder. Then she looked up and saw the Captain sitting on the roof, shooting a freeze gun into the air.

"I told you," said the Riddler. "She raided the storage lockers."

Al's grin couldn't have been bigger if she'd just been hit with Joker Venom.

"_Snow_!"

* * *

Author's note: This mistletoe joke has been brought to you by BiteMeTechie. Teh yays.

"You like him," Al accused.

"Who?" the Captain asked innocently.

"Eddums."

"Well, of course I like Eddums. After we played Lumines, I got out my old desktop, and we played good old classic Tetris. And halfway through the game, I did the Inigo Montoya thing and said—"

"You were playing him left-handed?"

"Of course. So was he. And he looked up at me and said, 'I think there's something you should know…I'm not left-handed, either.'" Al squeed. "But that's not all! After we switched hands…" Her voice dropped down to a whisper. "I _won_."

"No way!"

"Way!"

"Well…he is more of a word puzzles kind of guy, anyway…" The Captain glared at her.

"Shut up and let me have my victory! I beat the Riddler at a puzzle game! I have got to keep this guy around and play with him some more. Number One…"

"Don't you dare give me the puppy dog eyes!" Al said. "You're as bad as _him_. Yes, Captain, the Eddums is yours and the Squishykins is mine. I have the feeling that's the way it should have worked out, anyway."

"Yay! But, you know, if you want your Squishykins to be, you know, squishy, maybe you should apologize for whatever you did that scared the hell out of him."

"Hey, I was just trying not to be too nice to him, so you could do your thing. You're the one who's always beating up on them."

"I don't like hurting people," the Captain insisted. "I just like nursing them back to health."

"And in order to nurse them back to health, you have to hurt them first."

"Well, sometimes to make an omelette, you have to break a few…legs." Al gave her an exasperated look, and then started laughing.

"With a hammer?" The Captain blushed.

"You didn't hurt him, did you?" she asked anxiously.

"No! At least, not much, and not on purpose. And, believe me, he gave as good as he got."

"But, his face…"

"Okay, so I was a little rough getting him in the straitjacket. But the worst of that happened before I got there. I think you know I wouldn't have done that to him."

"Only because every time you come up with something really nasty, you wuss out and make me do it for you. And here I thought I was supposed to be the nice one."

"Captain," Al said, suddenly serious. The Captain smiled, and they both steeled themselves for the melodramatic outpouring of love and friendship that was, by necessity, a part of any good Christmas story.

"Seriously, Number One, he's the nicest present I ever could have asked for."

"I just don't think anyone should have to be alone for Christmas. Speaking of which, you could still come home with me…"

"No. As much as I love your family, and as much as they always make me feel welcome—"

"Welcome, hell! You're not welcome, you're family. You're an adopted strawberry, and there's no getting out of that."

"Look, you don't have to worry about me being lonely. How could I be, when I have you?" She smiled. "I know how lucky I am to have a friend—_family_ like you. And—hey, you know I lurve ya, right?"

"Uh-huh," Al said with a raised eyebrow at the sudden lightening of her captain's tone.

"Good, because I have a little confession to make." She let her voice drop down to a whisper. "Eddums wasn't really your present. I mean, he was, but he was really for both of us. I actually got you something else."

"Squidjums?" Al blurted.

"No, he's spending Christmas with his wife. You know that."

"Right. Well, then, what'dja get me?" she asked, doing a close enough imitation of Harley Quinn to make the Captain squeak with joy.

"It's outside. I'm going to get Eddums to help me with it. Meanwhile, you use those cookies and your sparkling personality on the Scarecrow. I want you two to be buddy-buddy when I get back."

"Deal." Al picked up the cookies, the Captain got her cake, and they went back into the dining room just in time to catch the tail end of their guests' conversation.

"Al and Nova?" the Riddler was saying. "She told me to call them Fukiko and Antoinette."

"Antoinette?" Al repeated. "Since when have you ever been an Antoinette?"

"It's my pen name. Tanya _was_ short for Tatyana, but I didn't want to pair a Russian first name with a French last name, so I figured Tanya could be a nickname for Antoinette."

"Why not just use a different last name?"

"Because I wanted to name myself after the captain in _Starship Troopers_—the movie, I mean—who gets cut in half by the door. Now, quit stalling me." She put down her cake and whispered something in the Riddler's ear. He got up and followed her out of the room.

The Scarecrow's eyes widened as he realized he was being left alone with her. Al moved closer to him. He inched away.

"Kyo fu nigami," she said solemnly, bowing to him. "Would you like a cookie?"

"No, thank you." His voice sounded so nervous, she had to smile.

"The Captain will never forgive me if I don't make you eat."

"Fine." He picked up a chocolate chip cookie and nibbled on the edge. Then his eyes widened in surprise. "Is that…peanut butter?"

"Yep, the Captain's famous peanut butter chocolate chip—oh, you're not allergic, are you?" she asked in horror.

He let the question hang for a few moments before he smiled and said, "No."

"Oh, good." She smiled back, even though she knew the intent of his was not friendly. "Squi—Scarecrow, sir, I'm sorry about kidnapping you, and I'm sorry I was all mean. But you wouldn't have come if I had just invited you, would you?"

"Not a chance," he agreed.

"And you didn't really have any better plans for Christmas, did you?"

He gave her an odd look before he answered, "Well…I've had worse holidays than this one."

"Oh, good. That means you forgive me, right?"

"Not remotely."

Her heart sank.

"Oh. Well, don't kill me yet, okay? Give me a little while to change your mind."

He gave her a shrug that she took as assent.

That was when her mischievous side came out to play.

"Hey, Squishykins," she said huskily. "Did you notice? We're under the mistletoe."

He was out of his chair and across the room in far less time than it would have taken her to pounce.

"Joking! I was joking! We don't even _have_ any mistletoe." She moved slowly toward him, holding her hands out in a gesture of peace. "I told you, I don't…do…things…" She trailed off as her gaze was drawn to the living room window, and the soft white flakes falling outside. "Hey, look, it's snowing," she whispered. "It's not cold enough…there's no way it should be snowing…but…it's snowing. _It's snowing_!" she shrieked. "It's snowing, it's snowing! Let's go play!"

She ran through the living room and threw open the front door, and was hit by a blast of frigid air.

"Snow!" she cheered. "It's a white Christmas!" Without stopping to put on a coat, she ran outside, vaulted off the front porch, skidded across the frozen sidewalk…and somehow managed not to fall on her face.

"Merry Christmas, Number One," the Captain called. Al turned around, slipping a bit on the ice.

At first, all she saw was the Riddler, bundled up to the ears, standing next to a ladder. Then she looked up and saw the Captain sitting on the roof, shooting a freeze gun into the air.

"I told you," said the Riddler. "She raided the storage lockers."

Al's grin couldn't have been bigger if she'd just been hit with Joker Venom.

"_Snow_!"


	30. Winter Wonderland

After a little coaxing, even the Scarecrow came outside to play in the new winter wonderland. He didn't exactly _play_, of course, but he watched the other three slide around on the ice like idiots for a little while.

The Captain handed the freeze gun over to Al with a smile.

"Now you can keep your room as cold as you want," she said. "Although it might be cheaper just to run the air conditioner. I think this thing runs on diamonds."

"Well, I'll just have to turn to a life of crime so I can keep my room nice and chilly." She hugged the gun the way an ordinary woman might have hugged a baby, and then, skidding a bit, went to put it in a safe place on the porch.

Meanwhile, the Captain bent down, scooped up a handful of faux snow, and packed it into a loose ball.

"Hey, Al!"

Al turned around just in time to get a face full of snow. She sputtered.

"You can't do that!"

"Oh, yeah?" The Captain was already scooping up another handful of snow.

"Don't—" The snowball exploded against her chest. "Of course you realize this means war!" She threw a snowball at the Captain, who shrieked.

"Eddie! Help me!"

"No, join me," Al said. "Together, we can rule the universe as father and son."

"Don't listen to her, she's evil! Okay, so that's probably no big deal, but…"

Suddenly, they were both aiming snowballs at the Riddler, with predatory gleams in their eyes.

"Whose side are you on, Eddums?"

"Um…" He looked back and forth between the two of them. "What's easier to spell, Tweedle-Dum or Tweedle-Dee?"

"Tweedle-Dee, because it has more eeeeeeees!" the Captain said, turning the last word into a maniacal giggle.

"Wait! That didn't even make sense!" Al protested as they both began pelting her with snow. "Scarecrow, I could use some backup!" He just watched her with a satisfied smirk.

"Come on, Squishykins, are you with us or against us?" the Captain demanded.

"I'm not playing your little game."

"Come on, come on, come on, three against one! Are you with us?"

"No!"

"Then you're against us!" She lobbed a snowball at his feet.

"I said no!" The Riddler flung one at his chest. "Nygma!" His fellow rogue just giggled and hefted another snowball.

"You can't attack my ally without provocation," Al said, disrupting any further attack from the Riddler by throwing snowball after snowball at him as she chased him around the yard.

"Come on, join in! Unless you're scared," the Captain taunted.

"This is childish."

"Your face is childish!"

"What?"

"I bet you throw like a girl! Come on, nancy-boy, take your best shot!" Closing her eyes, she spread her arms wide to make a giant target of herself.

And gasped when a cold, wet snowball hit her squarely in the chest.

She stared at him, giggling with unholy glee.

"Them's fightin' words," the Scarecrow said gruffly. She made a sound suspiciously like an explosion of pure joy.

"All hands to battle stations! The enemy has returned fire!" the Captain bellowed. "_War has been declared!"_

Al ran up behind him and dragged him off the porch just as a flurry of snowballs from two directions splattered against the wall behind where he had been standing.

"Take cover! She's good, but we can beat her." They ducked behind the porch together, sheltered by the stairs. For a moment, everything was quiet.

"Come out and face your defeat like men," the Captain yelled. "Fight bravely and die well, or surrender now! Estica e Charada vitorioso!" A snowball thudded against the stairs, showering them both as it exploded.

"Pick a language and stick to it," Al yelled back. She packed a snowball, stood up, and let fly without aiming. One of the Captain's snowballs hit her in the face before she could duck back down.

"Score one for the Horde," the Captain cheered.

"I am the Horde, you fancy-pants elf," Al yelled back. There was a moment of silence.

"Okay, you be the splinter groups, and we'll be core Horde."

"Do you know what any of that means?" Al whispered. Seeing his blank expression, she decided to explain it to him. "We used to RP a pair of Tauren sisters. I was a druid, and she was a shaman. Funnily enough, she was the healer and I was the tank…but you don't know what I'm talking about, do you? Okay, simple version: she's a voodoo-working Troll, he's a bloodthirsty Orc, I'm a tree-hugging cow, and you, well, you're Undead." He still looked blank. "Just be sure to say, 'I am Forsaken,' before you kill her. And try to make it sound all hissy and evil."

"I'll keep that in mind." If there was sarcasm in his tone, she didn't notice it.

Al stood up and yelled, "Your terms are acceptable! Let the battle commence!"

"For the Horde!"

"For the Horde," the Riddler echoed with less surety. They both hurled their snowy missiles at Al as she ducked back down.

"You can't win, you know! We're willing to consider your unconditional surrender! We will fight you to the last man! We will fight you with our dying breath! We will fight you in the trenches! We will fight you on the beaches! We will fight you in the front yard, so we don't have to fight you in the back yard!"

"Yeah," the Riddler said. Then, a moment later, after some apparent coaching, "Lok'tar."

Ignoring the Captain's tirade, Al turned to whisper her plan to the Scarecrow.

"They're behind the two big trees. If I draw their fire, can you flank them?" He scanned the area. The yard didn't offer much in the way of concealment, but there were a few trees that could work if he made proper use of them.

"I can do it," he said.

"Good."

With a very bovine battle cry, she vaulted over the edge of the porch, running at full speed for the other side, and still managing to throw a snowball in the enemy's general direction.

Because he rather doubted her dodging abilities, he laid down suppressing fire until she reached cover. No point letting his teammate get killed. The moment she reached safety, he dashed for the nearest tree. Now she offered covering fire for him.

"They're hitting us on two fronts," the Captain shrieked. "They may divide, but they will never conquer! Drive them back!"

Two snowballs smashed against the Scarecrow's tree. In the same amount of time, four of Al's snowballs hit the Captain's tree.

"You're too slow, old woman," Al called.

"Not quite, Number One. You know why you always run out of ammo and I don't? Because you don't take the time to pick…your…shots!" She chucked a snowball at Al's arm when it peeked out of cover for a moment as she shifted balance.

"I'm hit," Al yelled. The Captain laughed, and the Scarecrow dashed for the safety of the next tree while they were distracted. One more, and he would be in position.

"Make a suicide charge," the Captain suggested. "You're a better shot when you're moving, anyway."

"Fine!" Al burst from cover, flinging snowballs as she ran. It was pretty impressive that she could scoop, pack, and throw without ever breaking stride. Even more impressive was that while both the Captain and the Riddler were concentrating their fire on her, neither of them managed to make a killing shot before she reached safety.

He darted over to the last tree before they remembered he was there. Perfect.

"You can't hide forever!" the Captain teased. Lazily, she tossed another snowball at Al's new shelter.

"I'm not the one standing still." Al popped out again, throwing snowballs at a frenzied pace as she made exactly the kind of suicide charge her friend-turned-enemy had suggested. The Riddler moved out to get a better shot at her.

Stupid move. Before he could quite fling his first missile, both Al and the Scarecrow pelted him with snow, killing him instantly.

But Al had taken one in the chest.

"Noooo!" she wailed as she fell back. "Oh, my brother-in-arms, avenge me!"

He scooped up a handful of snow to throw at the Captain—

Only to find her aiming her own snowball at him.

They stared at each other for a long moment.

"So cold," Al moaned. "Everything's…going…black…" She coughed theatrically.

"Well, it looks like we have a standoff," the Captain said.

"Looks like."

"I see a tunnel…and there's a bright light at the end of it. Mama! Papa! Grandma! Cousin Jim! And good old Rover, all waiting for me." Neither of them so much as twitched long enough to look at Al, even when she coughed again and then cried out, "Oh, glory hallelujah, Mama, I'm coming home!"

"Just die already," the Captain said without taking her eyes off the Scarecrow.

"No, wait. I think I'm going to pull through. I'm feeling much better. Yes, it's just a flesh wound!"

"No, it isn't!"

"How would you know? You're not even looking at me." He tensed, but the Captain saw through Al's clever plan.

"You're dying, all right. I saw you get hit."

"It's just a scratch."

"A scratch? You're arm's off!"

"No, it isn't."

"Al—"

"I feel happy! I feel hap-peeee!" The Captain made a growly sound in the back of her throat.

"Will the Riddler's ghost please conk her on the head and drag her off into the afterlife?"

"Help, help, I'm being repressed," Al yelped, and then fell blessedly silent.

"And there was much rejoicing," the Captain said. "Yay. Now, back to the problem at hand. I propose that we begin peace talks, on the grounds that our ammo is melting."

"Agreed." They both lowered their snowballs, which by now were little more than chunks of ice and enough barely-melted water to soak through their gloves.

"Now, General Crane—"

"General Crane?" he repeated.

"Of course. You have to be a general to conduct peace talks." _Oh, you do, do you?_

"Then what do I call you?"

"General Tsao," she said without missing a beat. "And I'm prepared to offer you very generous terms."

"Such as?"

"I'll offer you Christmas dinner every year for so long as we both shall live, in exchange for your solemn promise not to take revenge on anyone involved in bringing you here." He raised an eyebrow. "Okay, I'll throw in Thanksgiving as a bonus, but that's my final offer." She hesitated. "Birthday cake?"

"I accept."

"Oh, good! Uh, when is your birth—"

"I have terms of my own," he interrupted. "Neither you nor your friend will ever come near me again without my permission. Ever, for any reason. No kidnapping, no stalking, no going through the same checkout line at the supermarket."

"Okay, that's reasonable." She hesitated. "And in exchange for this, you're offering what?"

Well, that was brave of her.

"My…hat?" he suggested. The Captain squeed.

"Cool, I love your hat! Your terms are acceptable. Let us never forget the oaths we swore at the Treaty of the Old Oak Tree." They shook hands, only then realizing how cold and squelchy their gloves were. "Ew. Maybe we should go inside."

"Yes, but there is one thing I'd like to do first."

Without the effect of the freeze gun, the snow was rapidly melting, but there was just enough left for the Scarecrow, the Riddler, and the Captain to pepper every inch of Al with snowballs until she begged for mercy.

The sound was every bit as satisfying as he had hoped.

* * *

_Anyone who can tell me where I got that riddle gets a big plate of key lime cookies. And a hug._

_And here's something that made me squee:_

_Without having read this story yet, for Christmas..._

_Number One..._

_gave..._

_me..._

_an..._

_EDDUMS!_

_I'm glad they don't actually make injured-in-battle action figures. I'd never get any work done._


	31. Eggnog and Hazlenut Cocoa

"You had fun today," Al said anxiously. "Didn't you?" He just sipped his hazelnut cocoa and ignored her. "Just a little?" He looked over at the Captain and the Riddler, who were making inroads on the eggnog together. By now, the Captain was looking a little worse for the wear, but the Riddler didn't seem to mind that she was using him as a pillow. "Come on, admit it. You did have a _little_ bit of fun."

"Maybe. Say that in front of anyone else, though, and I'll deny it with my dying breath," he said sternly.

"Hey, you got to throw things at me."

"Yes, that was the fun part."

"And just think, next year you can do it again."

"Hmm." He went back to his cocoa, trying to block her out. _As if I would come back here._

"Okay, well…I'm driving home tomorrow, but you can take the rental car back to Gotham whenever you're ready. I mean, you should stay the night; the Captain would never forgive me if I tried to kick you out in the middle of the night. But Hugh and Caleb will be coming over for dinner tomorrow, and…you might not want to still be here then, am I right? You don't want to hang out with them any more than you want to hang out with me." She sighed. "I screwed that up, didn't I? Here you're supposed to be my favorite, and I go and beat you up."

"I've had worse," he admitted.

"Worse beatings?"

"And worse Christmases. Believe me, you have a long way to go before you become a true villain." She smiled.

"I'm not sure what you mean by that, but thank you. I think." She glanced over at their companions, and then back at him. "You weren't planning on leaving right now, were you?"

"Actually, that would probably be best."

"Oh…" She hesitated. "Eddums probably needs a ride back. Do you mind waiting until…"

"Until what?"

"Well…every time the Captain gets to a certain level of drunk…well, there's a reason why we don't get drunk together anymore."

The Captain, normally soft-spoken (outside of the field of battle) had been mumbling more or less unintelligibly since beginning earnest work on the eggnog. She chose this moment to raise her voice so they could all understand her words perfectly, slurred though they might be.

"Eddums, d'you want s-some sex?"

"What?" he said, confronted by a question he didn't know how to answer, which must have been an odd feeling for him.

"It's not complicated. Do you want sex, right now, yes or no?"

"Oh. Um…yes?"

"Really?" She tried to sit up, and failed. "Nobody's ever said yes before. All my friends are too nice to take advantage of the drunk girl. But you're not a nice guy, are you?" She grinned. "I like that." She kissed his cheek, and then fell over.

"Uh…Captain?"

"I'm still awake," she mumbled. "I just don't wanna sit up."

"Well, she's useless for the rest of the evening."

"Does Shwishskins want sex? You should both get laid. If you're into that. Do you both of you like girls?" She flopped over again.

"Well, never mind about waiting," Al said. "I always thought she'd go through with it if she ever got a yes." She placed a key on the table in front of him. "I'd better get her to bed." She pulled the Captain to her feet.

"Hang on," the Captain said. She stumbled over to the Scarecrow, put her hands on his shoulders, leaned over carefully, and kissed him. "Thank you for coming. I had a lovely time, and I hope I'll see you next year." Then, unaided, she stumbled down the hall.

"Huh." Al glanced at the Scarecrow's face, and spent the next few minutes fighting an intense battle against the urge to laugh. "I—umm—didn't quite expect that. I…" She pressed her hand against her mouth, but couldn't keep the snickers from escaping. "Um…don't worry, I promise not to come after you like this again."

"You've learned your lesson about kidnapping?" the Riddler asked when the Scarecrow didn't respond.

"Oh, hell, no. I've learned my lesson about kidnapping _him._ No, for her birthday, I'm getting her Herbert West."

The Scarecrow made a mental note to pass along a warning to this Herbert West, if he ever happened to meet him.


	32. The Nerve

After the guests were gone, Al and her Captain sat in her bedroom, laughing until tears ran down their faces.

"I can't believe you had the nerve to kiss him," Al gasped. The Captain cackled with glee.

"I can't believe he let me. I can't believe he bought the drunk act. I can't believe he didn't kill us for putting him through all this trouble, promises or no promises."

"Captain," Al teased, "I think he liked it."

"Now, _that_ I don't believe."


	33. Pie and Crossword Puzzles

_Arkham Asylum, one year later._

Every year, it seemed there were more charities. Stranger and stranger, they were. This year, it seemed the good people of Gotham were willing to give, give, give to the very people who stole from them all year round.

The Scarecrow was alone in his cell, reading a very old and battered copy of _The Haunting of Hill House_(one of the few books he had any use for that had somehow appeared on the approved reading list) when the package came.

"Merry Christmas from the First Church of Lost Souls," the orderly said, obviously mouthing someone else's words. "Our mission is to provide a home-cooked meal to everyone who needs it. Please enjoy." He dumped a picnic basket on the Scarecrow's bedside table and backed out of the cell as quickly as he could, letting the transparent wall slam down between them before he spoke again. "There's some books, too, but they ain't on the list, so I can't give 'em to you. If you really want 'em, you can talk to your doc when he gets back from vacation on Monday. That okay?"

"What books?" Crane asked in a tone calculated to make the orderly feel like an awkward schoolboy. This one was falling easily into the habit of asking permission for everything he did; he seemed to have forgotten that _he_was supposed to be the one giving the inmates orders, and that he had the authority to enforce those orders with almost anything short of lethal force if they didn't comply.

"Um..._Silence of the Lambs_ and...I can't pronounce this." He held a threadbare hardback book up to the glass. Interesting. It was a psychology text, obsolete but still fascinating as a historical curiosity, that Crane had been hoping to get his hands on since long before the first time he ever donned his mask.

"Who is this from?" he asked. The orderly flinched.

"There's a card in the basket." He was sweating, probably hoping Crane would notice, or at least wouldn't mind, that the card had already been opened and read. It was standard security procedure, but he was still afraid of taking the blame.

Crane read the card with no expression. Its message was short and simple.

_We always cook extra at Christmastime._

It was signed "Fukiko Ichigo and Tanya Deladier".

He took a look inside the basket and was pleasantly surprised by the wealth of food. All traditionally southern food—fried chicken, biscuits, pecan pie, pumpkin pie, sweet potato pie…chocolate pie. Pie in many shapes and sizes.

Well, there was nothing wrong with dessert. He didn't have nearly as much of a sweet tooth as his odd pair of holiday stalkers, but…well, he would not turn down sweet potato pie.

The Scarecrow smiled a little. The orderly turned pale and ran. Crane paid him no mind.

Vengeance (like pie) was a dish best served cold. Their crippling terror would keep…for at least one more Christmas.

* * *

_Author's note o' joy: Heee. The end. I hope everybody liked it._

_And I especially hope my first mate liked it. Merry Christmas, noble one!_

_Thanks for reading! And happy holidays._

_-3.0_

* * *

_Update complete as of 2012/01/25_

* * *

_P.S. If you enjoyed this, you'll love the incredible tale of the joining of the unholy trio in "Cross Roads Blues."_


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